narling at his own weakness. There was
something in him stronger than passion, stronger than his reckless will,
that would not let him lay a hand on her in the light of day. His
bloodshot eyes looked for the sun. In a few hours now it would be dark.

While he lounged sullenly on the chopping-block, shoulders and head
sunken, a sound brought him to alert attention. A horseman was galloping
down the slope on the other side of the valley.

Doble eased his guns to make sure of them. Intently he watched the
approaching figure. He recognized the horse, Chiquito, and then, with an
oath, the rider. His eyes gleamed with evil joy. At last! At last he and
Dave Sanders would settle accounts. One of them would be carried out of
the valley feet first.

Sanders leaped to the ground at the same instant that he pulled Chiquito
up. The horse was between him and his enemy.

The eyes of the men crossed in a long, level look.

"Where's Joyce Crawford?" asked Dave.

"That yore business?" Doble added to his retort the insult unmentionable.

"I'm makin' it mine. What have you done with her?" The speech of the
younger man took on again the intonation of earlier days. "I'm here to
find out."

A swish of skirts, a soft patter of feet, and Joyce was beside her
friend, clinging to him, weeping in his arms.

Doble moved round in a wide circumference. When shooting began he did not
want his foe to have the protection of the horse's body. Not even for the
beat of a lid did the eyes of either man lift from the other.

"Go back to the house, Joyce," said Dave evenly. "I want to talk with
this man alone."

The girl clung the tighter to him. "No, Dave, no! It's been ... awful."

The outlaw drew his long-barreled six-shooter, still circling the group.
He could not fire without running a risk of hitting Joyce.

"Hidin' behind a woman, are you?" he taunted, and again flung the epithet
men will not tolerate.

At any moment he might fire. Dave caught the wrists of the girl, dragged
them down from his neck, and flung her roughly from him to the ground. He
pulled out his little bulldog.

Doble fired and Dave fell. The outlaw moved cautiously closer, exultant
at his marksmanship. His enemy lay still, the pistol in his hand.
Apparently Sanders had been killed at the first shot.

"Come to git me with that popgun, did you? Hmp! Fat chance." The bad man
fired again, still approaching very carefully.

Round the corner of the house a man had come.