r. Then the man struck with the butt of one of
the pistols he had picked up from the floor, and Owen went down in a
heap.

When he regained consciousness the room was empty. For a time he lay
where he had fallen, too dizzy and faint to get to his feet; and then
he heard Dale's voice, saying:

"A bullet wouldn't go through it. Shoot!"

At the sound of Dale's voice a terrible rage, such as had seized Owen
at the moment he had stuck the rifle through the window, gripped him
now, and he sat up, swaying from the strength of it. He got to his
feet, muttering insanely, and staggered toward the kitchen door--from
the direction in which Dale's voice seemed to come.

It took him some time to reach the door, and when he did get there he
was forced to lean against one of the jambs for support.

But he gained strength rapidly, and peering around the door jamb he was
just in time to see Dale step on a chair and lift himself over the
partition dividing the kitchen from the pantry.

Owen heard the commotion that followed Dale's disappearance over the
partition; he heard the succeeding crashes and the scuffling. Then
came Dale's voice:

"Damn you, you devil, I'll fix you!"

Making queer sounds in his throat, Owen ran into the sitting-room where
the weapons taken from the men had been piled. They were not there.
He picked up the rifle. By some peculiar irony the lock worked all
right for him now, but a quick look told him there were no more
cartridges in the magazine. He dropped the rifle and looked wildly
around for a another weapon.

He saw a lariat hanging from a peg on the kitchen wall. It was
Sanderson's rope--Owen knew it. Sanderson had oiled it, and had hung
it from the peg to dry.

Owen whined with joy when he saw it. His face working, odd guttural
sounds coming from his throat, Owen leaped for the rope and pulled it
from the peg. Swiftly uncoiling it, he glanced at the loop to make
sure it would run well; then with a bound he was on the chair and
peering over the top of the partition, the rope in hand, the noose
dangling.

He saw Dale directly beneath it. The Bar D man was standing over Mary
Bransford. The girl was on her back, her white face upturned, her eyes
closed.

Grinning with hideous joy, Owen threw the rope. The loop opened,
widened, and dropped cleanly over Dale's head.

Dale threw up both hands, trying to grasp the sinuous thing that had
encircled his neck, but the little man jerked th