command of his free hand.

Macdonald lifted his hands slowly, holding them little above a level
with his shoulders.

"Give up your prisoner, Macdonald, and we'll deal square with you,"
Dalton said.

"Go in and take him," offered Macdonald, stepping aside out of the
door.

"Go ahead of us, and put 'em up higher!" Dalton made a little
expressive flourish with his gun, evidently distrustful of the
homesteader's quick hand, even at his present disadvantage.

The man at the back door was using the ax from Macdonald's wood pile,
as the sound of splintering timber told. Between three fires,
Macdonald felt his chance stretching to the breaking point, for he had
no faith at all in Chance Dalton's word. They had come to get him, and
it looked now as if they had won.

When Macdonald entered the house he saw Thorn sitting in the middle of
the floor, where he had rolled and struggled in his efforts to see
what was taking place outside.

"You've played hell now, ain't you? lettin' 'em git the drop on you
that way!" he said to Macdonald, angrily. "They'll swing--"

"Hand over that gun, Macdonald," Dalton demanded. They were standing
near him, one on either hand, both leveling their guns at his head.
Macdonald could see the one at the back door of his little two-roomed
bungalow through the hole that he had chopped.

"I don't hand my gun to any man; if you want it, come and take it,"
Macdonald said, feeling that the end was rushing upon him, and
wondering what it would be. A bullet was better than a rope, which
Chadron had publicly boasted he had laid up for him. There was a long
chance if Dalton reached for that gun--a long and desperate chance.

The man at the back door was shouting something, his gun thrust
through the hole. Dalton made a cross-reach with his left hand for
Macdonald's revolver. On the other side the cowboy was watching his
comrade's gun pointing through the kitchen door; Macdonald could see
the whites of his eyes as he turned them.

"Don't shoot in here! we've got 'em," he called.

His shifted eye told Macdonald that he was trusting to Dalton, and
Dalton at that moment was leaning forward with a strain, cautiously,
his hand near Macdonald's holster.

Macdonald brought his lifted arms down, like a swimmer making a mighty
stroke, with all the steam behind them that he could raise. His
back-handed blow struck the cowboy in the face; Macdonald felt the
flame of his shot as it spurted past his forehead. T