ony
tearing through his breast. Then in a frenzy he jerked so powerfully
upon the rifle that he threw the woman against the wall. She fell and
seemed stunned.

Duane leaped back, whirled, flew out of the door to the porch. The sharp
cracking of a gun halted him. He saw Jennie holding to the bridle of his
bay horse. Euchre was astride the other, and he had a Colt leveled,
and he was firing down the lane. Then came a single shot, heavier, and
Euchre's ceased. He fell from the horse.

A swift glance back showed to Duane a man coming down the lane. Chess
Alloway! His gun was smoking. He broke into a run. Then in an instant he
saw Duane, and tried to check his pace as he swung up his arm. But that
slight pause was fatal. Duane shot, and Alloway was falling when his gun
went off. His bullet whistled close to Duane and thudded into the cabin.

Duane bounded down to the horses. Jennie was trying to hold the plunging
bay. Euchre lay flat on his back, dead, a bullet-hole in his shirt, his
face set hard, and his hands twisted round gun and bridle.

"Jennie, you've nerve, all right!" cried Duane, as he dragged down
the horse she was holding. "Up with you now! There! Never mind--long
stirrups! Hang on somehow!"

He caught his bridle out of Euchre's clutching grip and leaped astride.
The frightened horses jumped into a run and thundered down the lane into
the road. Duane saw men running from cabins. He heard shouts. But
there were no shots fired. Jennie seemed able to stay on her horse, but
without stirrups she was thrown about so much that Duane rode closer and
reached out to grasp her arm.

Thus they rode through the valley to the trail that led up over, the
steep and broken Rim Rock. As they began to climb Duane looked back. No
pursuers were in sight.

"Jennie, we're going to get away!" he cried, exultation for her in his
voice.

She was gazing horror-stricken at his breast, as in turning to look back
he faced her.

"Oh, Duane, your shirt's all bloody!" she faltered, pointing with
trembling fingers.

With her words Duane became aware of two things--the hand he
instinctively placed to his breast still held his gun, and he had
sustained a terrible wound.

Duane had been shot through the breast far enough down to give him grave
apprehension of his life. The clean-cut hole made by the bullet bled
freely both at its entrance and where it had come out, but with no signs
of hemorrhage. He did not bleed at the mouth; howeve