so silent that a clock ticking somewhere out in the
barroom was to be heard distinctly, so that again the men guarded their
breathing.

Lee thought that he knew where Quinnion was, in the corner at his right
close to the rear wall. Not square in the corner, of course, for
having fired he was fox enough to shift his position a little. True,
no sound had told of such a movement. But Quinnion could be trusted to
make no sound at a time like this. Lee, equally silent, again set a
slow foot out, moving cautiously toward the spot where his eyes sought
Quinnion in the dark.

He was calculating swiftly now: Quinnion had fired twice from the
screen of the table just as Steve shot out the light; he had fired
again just now, it was a fair bet that at least one of the other shots
had been his. That meant that he had fired four times. If Quinnion
still carried his old six-shooter he had but two shots at most left to
him, for there had been no time which he would risk in reloading.

Lee swept off his hat and tossed it out before him to the spot where he
believed Quinnion was and dropped swiftly to his knee as he did so.
There was a snarl, Quinnion's evil snarl, and a shot that sped high
above his head. His hat had struck Quinnion full in the face. Then
Lee again sprang onward, again struck out with his clubbed revolver.
The blow missed Quinnion's head but caught him heavily on the shoulder
and sent him staggering back against the wall. Lee could hear the bulk
of his body crashing against the boards. And again leaping, he struck
the second time at Quinnion. This time there was no snarl, but a
falling weight and stillness.

There was a sound of a chair violently thrown down, the scuffle of
hasty feet and in the door the faint blur of a flying figure seeking
refuge in the bar. Lee flung the crippled door shut after the fugitive
and then with his left hand struck a match, his revolver ready in his
right.

Holding the tiny flame down toward the floor, he made out two prone
bodies. One, that of the first man he had struck down, a man whom he
knew by name as Lefty Devine, a brawler and boon companion of Quinnion.
The other Quinnion himself. Devine lay very still, clearly completely
stunned. Quinnion moved a little.

Carson's weather-beaten face peered in at the window.

"Better do the hot foot, Bud," he grunted softly, "while the trail's
open. Steve will be mixing in again."

But Lee seemed in no haste now. When t