A white-clad figure rushed at Gale. He tripped
the man, but had to kick hard to disengage himself from grasping
hands. Another figure closed in on Gale. This one was dark, swift.
A blade glinted--described a circle aloft. Simultaneously with a
close, red flash the knife wavered; the man wielding it stumbled
backward. In the din Gale did not hear a report, but the Mexican's
fall was significant. Then pandemonium broke loose. The din
became a roar. Gale heard shots that sounded like dull spats in
the distance. The big lamp behind the bar seemingly split, then
sputtered and went out, leaving the room in darkness.
Gale leaped toward the restaurant door, which was outlined faintly
by the yellow light within. Right and left he pushed the groping
men who jostled with him. He vaulted a pool table, sent tables
and chairs flying, and gained the door, to be the first of a wedging
mob to squeeze through. One sweep of his arm knocked the restaurant
lamp from its stand; and he ran out, leaving darkness behind him.
A few bounds took him into the parlor. It was deserted. Thorne
had gotten away with Mercedes.
It was then Gale slowed up. For the space of perhaps sixty seconds
he had been moving with startling velocity. He peered cautiously
out into the plaza. The paths, the benches, the shady places under
the trees contained no skulking men. He ran out, keeping to the
shade, and did not go into the path till he was halfway through
the plaza.
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