rs in hand, groped their way across to the connecting
door. As Hope had described, this had been securely fastened by a stout
wooden bar. Bristoe forced it from the sockets, not without some slight
noise, and Keith, crouching down at one side, lifted the latch. "Keep
down low, boys," he cautioned, "where he can't hit you."

With one quick push he flung the door wide open, and a red flash lit the
room. There were two sharp reports, the bullets crashing into the wall
behind them, the sudden blaze of flame revealing the front door open,
and within it the black outline of a man's figure. Two of the men fired
in instant response, leaping recklessly forward, but were as quickly
left blind in the darkness, the outer door slammed in their faces.
Outside there was a snarl of rage, another shot, a fierce curse in
Spanish; then Keith flung the door wide open, and leaped down the step.
As he did so he struck a body, and fell forward, his revolver knocked
from his hand. Rising to his knees, the dim light of the stars revealed
a man already half across the stream. Suddenly two sparks of fire leaped
forth from the blackness of the opposite bank; the man flung up his
hand, staggered, then went stumbling up the stream, knee deep in water.
He made a dozen yards, reeling as though drunk, and fell forward, face
down across a spit of sand. Keith stared out at the black, motionless
shape, felt along the ground for his lost gun, and arose to his feet.
Bristoe had turned over the dead body at the foot of the steps, and was
peering down into the upturned face.

"It's the Indian," he said grimly, "Sanchez must 'a' mistook him fer one
of us, and shot the poor devil."

"And Sanchez himself is out yonder on that sand-spit," and Keith
pointed; then lifted his voice to make it carry across the stream. "Come
on over, Doctor, you and Neb. We've got the gang. Bring that body out
there along with you."

The "Bar X" man waded out to help, and the three together laid the dead
Mexican outlaw on the bank beside the Indian he had shot down in his
effort to escape. Keith stood for a moment bending low to look curiously
into the dead face--wrinkled, scarred, still featuring cruelty, the thin
lips drawn back in a snarl. What scenes of horror those eyes had
gazed upon during fifty years of crime; what suffering of men, women,
children; what deeds of rapine; what examples or merciless hate. Juan
Sanchez!--the very sound of the name made the blood run cold. "Dea