nd windows. The atmosphere
cleared. Belllounds sagged against the wall, pallid, with protruding
eyes of horror on the scene before him. The dark-skinned little man lay
writhing. All at once a tremor stilled his convulsions. His body relaxed
limply. As if by magic his hand loosened on the smoking gun. Folsom was
on his knees, reeling and swaying, waving his gun, peering like a
drunken man for some lost object. His temple appeared half shot away, a
bloody and horrible sight.

"Pards, I got him!" he said, in strange, half-strangled whisper. "I got
him!... Hell-Bent Wade! My respects! I'll meet you--thar!"

His reeling motion brought his gaze in line with Belllounds. The
violence of his start sent drops of blood flying from his gory temple.

"Ahuh! The cards run--my way. Belllounds, hyar's to your--lyin' eyes!"

The gun wavered and trembled and circled. Folsom strained in last
terrible effort of will to aim it straight. He fired. The bullet tore
hair from Belllounds's head, but missed him. Again the rustler aimed,
and the gun wavered and shook. He pulled trigger. The hammer clicked
upon an empty chamber. With low and gurgling cry of baffled rage Folsom
dropped the gun and sank face forward, slowly stretching out.

The red-bearded rustler had leaped behind the stone chimney that all but
hid his body. The position made it difficult for him to shoot because
his gun-hand was on the inside, and he had to press his body tight to
squeeze it behind the corner of ragged stone. Wade had the advantage. He
was lying prone with his right hand round the corner of the framework.
An overhang of the bough-ends above protected his head when he peeped
out. While he watched for a chance to shoot he loaded his empty gun with
his left hand. The rustler strained and writhed his body, twisting his
neck, and suddenly darting out his head and arm, he shot. His bullet
tore the overhang of boughs above Wade's face. And Wade's answering
shot, just a second too late, chipped the stone corner where the
rustler's face had flashed out. The bullet, glancing, hummed out of the
window. It was a close shave. The rustler let out a hissing,
inarticulate cry. He was trapped. In his effort to press in closer he
projected his left elbow beyond the corner of the chimney. Wade's quick
shot shattered his arm.

There was no asking or offering of quarter here. This was the old feud
of the West--of the vicious and the righteous in strife--both reared in
the same st