re of four rifles. One bullet fanned his cheek, a
second plunged through his coat sleeve, a third struck the rock at his
feet. While the echoes were still crashing, he was flat on his rock
again, peering over the edge to see their next move.

"He's alone," cried Healy jubilantly. "Must have sent the kid back for
help. Bart, get Dixon's gun, steal up the ravine, and take him in the
rear. I'd go myself, but I can't leave the boys now."

Slowly the cattle felt the impetus from behind, and began to move
forward. The voice above shouted a second warning. Healy answered with a
derisive yell. Keller again stood exposed on the ledge.

Rifles cracked.

This time the cattle detective was firing at men and not at horses, and
they in turn were pumping at him fast as they could work the levers. One
man went down, torn through and through by a rifle slug in his vitals.
Healy's horse twitched and staggered, but the rider was unhurt. The
officer on the ledge, a perfect target, was the heart of a very hail of
lead, but when he sank again to cover he was by some miracle still
unhurt.

"They'll try a flank attack next time," Keller told himself.

Up to date the honors were easily his. He had put three horses out of
commission and disabled one of the outlaws so badly that he would prove
negligible in the attack. Peering down, he could see Healy, with superb
contempt for the marksman above, slowly and carefully carry his wounded
comrade to shelter. The other men were already driven back to cover. The
cattle, excited by the firing, were milling round and round uneasily.

Healy laid the wounded man down, knelt beside him, and gave him water
from his flask. The man was plainly hard hit, though he was not bleeding
much.

"Where is it, Duke? Can I do anything for you, old fellow?"

The dying man shook his head and whispered hoarsely: "I've got mine,
Brill. Shot to pieces. I'm dying right now. Get out while you can. Don't
mind me."

His chief swore softly. "We'll get him right, Duke. Brad's after him
now. Buck up, old pard. You'll worry through yet."

"Not this time, Brill. I've played rustler once too often."

Keller, far up on the precipice, became aware of approaching riders long
before the outlaws below could see them. He counted eight--nine--ten
men, still black dots in a cloud of dust. This he knew must be Phil's
posse.

If he could hold the rustlers for ten minutes more they would be caught
like rats in a trap. Once or twic