When the safe was clean of papers Racey tied the mouth of the bran sack, took Molly by the hand, and blew out the candle. "C'mon," he said, shortly. "We'll be leavin' here now." Towing her behind him he led her to the window of the rear room. Holding his hat by the brim he shoved it out through the window. No blow or shot followed the action. He clapped the hat on his head, and looked out cautiously. He satisfied himself that the coast was clear and flung a leg over the sill. When he had helped out Molly he gave her the sack to hold and pulled on his boots. "Where's yore hoss?" he whispered. "I tied him at the corner of the nearest corral," was the answer. "C'mon," said he and took her again by the hand. They had not gone ten steps when she stumbled and fell against him. "Whatsa matter?" "Nothing," was the almost breathless reply. "I'm--I'm all right. I just stepped on a sharp stone." "Yore shoes!" he murmured, contritely. "I never thought. Why didn't you say something? Here." So saying he scooped her up in his arms, settled her in place with due regard for the box of caps in his breast-pocket, and plowed on through the night. Her arms went round his neck and her head went down on his shoulder. She sighed a gentle little sigh. For a sigh like that Racey would cheerfully have shot a sheriff's posse to pieces. "I left my shoes in my saddle pocket," she said, apologetically. "I--I thought it would be safer." There was a sudden yell somewhere on Main Street. It sounded as if it came from uncomfortably close to the Tweezy house. Then a sixshooter cracked once, twice, and again. At the third shot Racey was running as tight as he could set foot to the ground. Encumbered as he was with a double armful of girl and a fairly heavy sackful of papers he yet made good time to the corner of the nearest corral. The increasing riot in Main Street undoubtedly was a most potent spur. "Which way's the hoss?" he gasped when the dark rail of the corral fretted the sky before them. "You're heading straight," she replied, calmly. "Thirty feet more and you'll run into him. Better set me down." He did--literally. He turned his foot on a tin can and went down ker-flop. Forced to guard his box of caps with one hand he could not save Molly Dale a smashing fall. "Ah-ugh!" guggled Molly, squirming on the ground, for she had struck the pit of her stomach on a round rock the size of a football and the wind was knocked out of her. Racey scrambled to his feet, and knowing that if Molly was able to wriggle and groan she could not be badly hurt, picked up the sack and scouted up Molly's horse. He found it without difficulty, and tied the sack with the saddle strings in front of the horn. He loosed the horse and led it to where Molly still lay on the ground. The poor girl was sitting up, clutching her stomach and rocking back and forth and fighting for her breath with gasps and crows.