He could hear oaths
and cries. Some one was throwing aimless shots from a revolver at the
porch.
He heard a window go up in the second story and a woman's frightened voice
ask. "What is it? Who is there?"
"Let me in. I'm ambushed by thugs," he called back.
"There he is--in the doorway," a voice cried out of the night, and it was
followed by a spatter of bullets about him.
He fired at a man leaping the fence. The fellow tumbled back with a kind of
scream.
"God! I'm hit."
He could hear steps coming down the stairway and fingers fumbling at the
key of the door. His attackers were gathering for a rush, and he wondered
whether the rescue was to be too late. They came together, the opening door
and the forward pour of huddled figures. He stepped back into the hall.
There was a raucous curse, a shot, and Yesler had slammed the door shut. He
was alone in the darkness with his rescuer.
"We must get out of here. They're firing through the door," he said, and
"Yes" came faintly back to him from across the hall.
"Do you know where the switch is?" he asked, wondering whether she was
going to be such an idiot as to faint at this inopportune moment.
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