mself and buffeted me in the mouth with his
fist, but I caught him--while struggling, tossed and upheaved, dimly saw
that as by a miracle we were surrounded by a ring of people, men and
women, their countenances pale, alarmed, intent. Voices sounded in a dull
roar.

Presently I had him crucified: his one outstretched arm under my knees,
his other arm tethered by my two hands, my body across his chest, while
his legs threshed vainly. I looked down into his bulging crooked eyes,
glaring back presumably into my eyes, and might draw breath.

"'Nuf? Cry "Nuf,'" I bade.

"'Nuf! Say "Nuf,'" echoed the crowd.

He strained again, convulsive; and relaxed.

"'Nuf!" he panted through bared teeth. "Lemme up, Mister."

"This settles it?"

"I said "Nuf,'" he growled.

With quick movement I sprang clear of him, to my feet. He lay for a
moment, baleful, and slowly scrambled up. On a sudden, as he faced me, his
hand shot downward--I heard the surge and shout of men and women, to the
stunning report of his revolver ducked aside, felt my left arm jerk and
sting--felt my own gun explode in my hand (and how it came there I did not
know)--beheld him spin around and collapse; an astonishing sight.

CHAPTER XVII

THE TRAIL FORKS

So there I stood, amidst silence, gaping foolishly, breathing hard, my
revolver smoking in my fingers and my enemy in a shockingly prone posture
at my feet, gradually reddening the white of the torn soil. He was upon
his face, his revolver hand outflung. He was harmless. The moment had
arrived and passed. I was standing here alive, I had killed him.

Then I heard myself babbling.

"Have I killed him? I didn't want to. I tell you, I didn't want to."

Figures rushed in between. Hands grasped me, impelled me away, through a
haze; voices spoke in my ear while I feebly resisted, a warm salty taste
in my throat.

"I killed him. I didn't want to kill him. He made me do it. He shot
first."

"Yes, yes," they said, soothing gruffly. "Shore he did; shore you didn't.
It's all right. Come along, come along."

Then----

"Pick him up. He's bad hurt, himself. See that blood? No, 'tain't his arm,
is it? He's bleedin' internal. Whar's the hole? Wait! He's busted
something."

They would have carried me.

"No," I cried, while their bearded faces swam. "He said "Nuf'--he shot me
afterward. Not bad, is it? I can walk."

"Not bad. Creased you in the arm, if that's all. What you spittin' blood
for?"

As