door, guarded by four men with repeating rifles; a squad of half a dozen or so, led by Simrall, marched up the steps.
Dr. Hall knew Simrall had picked his most determined men for that charge to the very seat of their objective. They came into the corridor noisily, brave fellows, Hall credited them, not knowing when a burst of shots from one of the numerous doors might cut them down. They stopped at the county recorder's office, trying the door. Finding it locked, one beat on it with something harder than a human fist.
"Cottrell, open this door!" came the peremptory demand.
Dr. Hall crossed to the door softly, opened it, to be confronted by Simrall, pistol in his fist. Hall was coatless, his shirt sleeves were tucked up. He held a hypodermic syringe in his hand, poised carefully, as if he had been disturbed in applying it to his patient. He kept one hand on the door, opening it only partly, but enough to give them a sight of Major Cottrell on his bed under the window.
"Open her up!" Simrall ordered, making a gesture with his gun.
"What's all this about?" Hall inquired, simulating surprise, but holding the door as it was.
"You know damn well, and none of your stallin'!" Simrall replied. "We're after the county books."
"Gentlemen," Hall said softly, "I've got a mighty sick man in here—I'm Dr. Hall, the railroad physician. Major Cottrell's been struck by an internal hemorrhage. He's a dying man."
"He can do all the dyin' he damn pleases after we take
