who six years before had taken him to the prison, a grizzly fellow with a long moustache, and wearing a sombrero; both times the posses were going northward, so that he had to master his desire to kill. Dusk came, and he pressed on, reeking with sweat, but unweary, the monstrous glare-dome of the city ahead. Finally, the glow resolved itself into details, and he trotted in between two rows of street-lamps.
Almost immediately he came upon a policeman. The man, a big, burly hulk, was walking slowly, twirling his stick, his helmet slightly tilted back. Collins dropped into a blind alley.
“Here, come out of there, you,” growled the policeman, half jocosely; “come out, come on, I want to see you!”
Collins stepped out and without raising his arm shot him. The policeman sat down with an astonished expression, coughed, and lay back on the sidewalk, Collins went on at a rapid silent walk to the next street, and, turning, ran. To his ear came the shrill affrighted cry of a police whistle. From the right another came;
