oking revolver in his hand, on
his lips a cruel twist and in his throat a wolfish snarl.

June, watching him with eyes held in a fascination of terror, felt that
at any moment he might begin pumping shots into the supine body. She
shook off the palsy that held her and almost hurled her soft young body
at him.

"Don't!" she begged. "Don't!" Cold fingers clutched at his wrist, dragged
down the barrel of the forty-five.

"He had it comin'. He was askin' for it," the outlaw said. He spoke
huskily, still looking down at the crumpled figure.

The girl felt in him the slackness of indecision. Should he shoot again
and make sure? Or let the thing go as it was? In an instant he would have
made up his mind.

She spoke quickly, words tumbling out pell-mell. "You must hurry--hurry!
When they heard that shot--Listen! There's some one coming. Oh, run,
run!"

Her staccato warning deflected his mind from the course toward which it
might have turned. He held up his head, listening. The slap of footsteps
on a board walk could be plainly heard. A voice lifted itself in question
into the night. The door of Dolan's opened and let out a fan-shaped shaft
of light. The figures of men could be seen as they surged across the lit
space into the darkness. June had spoken the truth. He must hurry if he
was to escape. To shoot again now would be to advertise the spot where he
was.

He wrenched his arm from her fingers and ran. He moved as awkwardly as a
bear, but he covered ground swiftly. In a few seconds the night had
swallowed him.

Instantly the girl was beside Dillon, on her knees, lifting his head into
her arms. "Oh, Bob--Bob!" she wailed.

He opened his eyes.

"Where did he hit you?" she cried softly.

His face was puzzled. He did not yet realize what had taken place. "Hit
me--who?"

"That Houck. He shot you. Oh, Bob, are you much hurt?"

Dillon was recalled to a pain in his intestines. He pressed his hand
against the cartridge belt.

"It's here," he said weakly.

He could feel the wet blood soaking through the shirt. The thought of it
almost made him lose consciousness again.

"L-let's have a look," a squeaky voice said.

June looked up. Blister had arrived panting on the scene. Larson was on
his heels.

"We better carry him to the hotel," the cattleman said to the justice.
"Who did it?"

"Houck," June sobbed. She was not weeping, but her breath was catching.

Bob tried to rise, but firm hands held him down. "I ca