No one, when daylight came, entertained the belief that Tom Reade would
suffer from any further attempts at violence, for now the little coterie
of so-called "bad men" in the town were thoroughly frightened.
Tom had not been hit by the rifle shot. He had fallen as a matter of
precaution, fearing that a second shot would speed on the heels of the
first.
The fellow who had fired that shot at Tom had not lingered long enough
to place himself in risk of Arizona vengeance. Even before some of the
men in the crowd had had time to discover that Reade, unhurt, was
laughing over his escape, a score or more had darted down the street,
only to find that the unknown whom they sought was safely out of the
way.
"We'll search the town from one end to the other," one excited citizen
had proposed.
"We'll make a night of it."
"Don't do anything of the sort," Tom had urged. "You'll terrorize
hundreds of women and children, who have no knowledge of this affair.
Jim Duff's little evening of celebration is ended and now the wisest
thing for you to do is to return to your homes.
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