Lachlan had stepped back a pace or two to avoid being caught in the turmoil. Yet he stood nearer the door than any of the others, and he heard before they did the sound of footfalls just beyond the threshold. At once he jumped back into the dark shadows under the wall of the house; and next moment he saw a tall man standing in the doorway, a man whose face and form he was likely to remember. His lips tightened as he recognized Captain Lance Falcon.
For a moment Falcon stood motionless in the doorway. His handsome, full-blooded face was flushed, his thick, red-brown hair was dishevelled, his buff jacket was twisted awry under its showy blue sash. No sooner had his eyes grown accustomed to the dim light without than he clapped his hand to his hilt and half drew the blade. Yet the next moment he thrust the weapon back with a clang and stepped down into the street bare-handed.
"So!" he shouted, "you're waiting for me, are you? You want some more o' the same physic? Aye, aye, you scum, you shall have it!"
The big pack-horse driver in the yellow jerkin—he with the bloody forehead—had a knife. He held his ground, but his comrades, less angry and less earnest than their leader, fell back. The street was in a hubbub now. From all sides men rushed to the scene, and at any moment the watch might come, summoned by the disturbance. In a deserted street Falcon might have fared badly, but as it was he faced only one enemy. And that one he disposed of quickly.
