For answer, one of the men threw back his coat and displayed the star of
a deputy United States marshal.
"We're officers," he said gruffly, "an' we want Fancy Farnsworth."
"You've come to the wrong place," said the major.
"Oh, no, we haven't. We traced him right here, an' he's in this house."
"What crime has he committed?"
"He killed a woman over at Rodeo last night."
An exclamation of horror arose from all parts of the room.
"There he is! Get him!" almost screamed one of the men, pointing to the
pale but resolute figure standing under the chandelier.
There was a rush, and confusion indescribable followed.
Crash went the chandelier, shattered into a thousand pieces by a dozen
bullets.
Rushing, struggling forms turned the smoke-filled room into a perfect
bedlam.
Two of the intruders went to the floor, sent there by swift and powerful
right-handers from Ted.
But they were up and rushing through the room in the direction of the
Christmas tree.
There Santa Claus met them, and again they were bowled over.
Ted saw the slender, black-clothed figure of Farnsworth slip past him in
the smoke.
Then followed the sharp hoofbeats of a pony on the wooden floor, a crash
of glass, and the swift patter on the earth outside, and all was still.
Farnsworth had leaped upon the back of Ted's Christmas-gift pony and
escaped.
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