"Nobody left in there," argued a voice, which he knew belonged to Bull Cook. "Whatsa use of stayin' here?" "I'm be not so sure," replied another. "Conley not get out ahead of us, and, ba gosh, he never get up de stairs. W'ere is Joe Burgoyne?" "Must 'a' gone up the other way. What's all the yellin' about?" Bud knew that the yelling must be from those at the burning hotel. "We stay here," declared the man. "Dis be one damn bad night for Kingsburg, eh?" "Yeah, I reckon we gotta drift, Frenchy. I hope that Joe nails that dirty spy." Bud knew that there was no time to lose, if he was going to get away. There were two men guarding the tunnel, but two men would be easier to handle than that whole mob, which might appear at any time. He gripped Joe tightly in his arms, half burying his face in Joe's back, and stumbled straight into the lantern light. "De place be on fire," he stated, imitating the language and tone of a French-Canadian. "I'm save de boss, ba gar!" "_Mon dieu!_" exclaimed one of them. "W'at happen to Joe? You say----" The man had placed his hands on Joe, when Bud let loose with his right hand, and, with a short swing of the heavy gun, struck the man across the head. He grunted softly and went to his knees, and Bud flung the limp body of Joe across him. The other man sprang aside and threw up his rifle, but he was cramped in the narrow space and the rifle spouted fire across Bud's breast. The concussion staggered him, but he dove into the man, trying to hit him with his revolver. The rifle clanged to the floor and the husky cowboy flung Bud aside against the rocks, but instead of following up his advantage he ducked low and ran into the tunnel. Bud staggered away from the rocks, his breath almost knocked from his body. His lungs ached and a stream of blood was running into his mouth, but he managed to pick Joe up in his arms and stagger away from the tunnel. The glow from the burning hotel seemed to light up the whole country. Men were yelling and running about, but Bud only staggered on, half-falling, laughing foolishly, swearing at himself, as he headed for the wagon and team, which must be somewhere out that way. Several times he went down, falling over Joe, but he got back to his feet, picked up his unconscious captive and staggered on. He was hanging onto his gun all this time, and swearing at Joe for being a burden on him. CHAPTER VII THE RUNAWAY GAUNTLET He found the wagon and dumped Joe into the box. The broncho team was chilled from the rain and needed no urging. Bud braced himself on the swaying seat, but made little attempt to guide the horses. The rain had ceased now and a rift in the clouds gave him some idea of the road. Through sort of a haze he could see the glow of the burning building, and it seemed to be straight ahead. Suddenly he jerked upright in the seat. The road must run straight through Kingsburg, he reasoned. He would have to drive through that street.