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 He threw two quick shots in there, stepped to the platform and dodged over to the corner of the building, ducking for shelter as fast as he could go, a burst of shooting behind him, bullets splintering the planks at his heels.

His left arm felt numb, but there was no pain; blood was pouring out of the wound down his sleeve. Thinking of getting the agent to help him, not knowing how serious his wound might be or how long he could keep going, Bill headed for the telegraph office. He was about to enter when the agent, white and scared to the rims of his eyeballs, slammed the door and locked it.

"Don't come in here!" he yelled through the door, his high-keyed unmanly voice quavering. "For God's sake, don't come in here!"

It was more a supplication than a command. Dunham saw the woman's piteous face at the window, her eyes pleading forgiveness for this inhospitable barring of refuge to a forsaken man. He turned away, thinking what next.

He thought of MacKinnon and the hotel, of fighting his way over there, win or lose, but doubted, when he came to the decision, whether he would be any more welcome there than in the railroad office. His conscience was so entirely unclouded that he found it hard to realize himself an outlawed man.

They had got him pretty well up in the left shoulder, above the lung he believed, as there was no blood rising in his throat. Maybe it was only a slight wound, but it began to feel as if it might be serious. He must cut for some shelter where he could stand them off while he