tably--but aside from that he
knew that he was not hurt. A fraction of an inch lower----

Hawk----! His first impulse had been to rush to the door--but the events
of the day had taught him caution and so he crouched, drawing his
revolver. Too much depended upon his existence at the present moment to
take a chance in the open with a hidden enemy--especially if that enemy
were Hawk Kennedy. He listened intently. No sound. Then the breaking of
a twig and the sibilance of whispering voices--two of them--perhaps
more. And still Peter did not move. His quick thinking had done him a
service. It was clear that the men outside had decided that the shot had
taken effect.

And now, instead of creeping to the doorway, Peter settled back upon the
floor again, prostrate, but in such a position that his eyes and his
revolver commanded the entrance to the Cabin. He waited. It was a
nerve-racking business but the thought of all that depended upon his
safety steadied him into a preternatural calm like that which falls at
the presence of death. Death was imminent here for some one. It lurked
just outside. It lurked in the finger that Peter held against the
trigger. And Peter meant that the adventure should end at the doorway.

Presently he heard a gentle shuffling of feet outside and the whisper
again, this time quite distinctly, "You got him, I reckon."

Whose voice was that? Not Hawk Kennedy's ... Peter lowered his head to
his arm and closed his eyes, watching the door-jamb through his
eyelashes, his revolver hidden but its muzzle in line. A bulky shadow on
the step, a foot and then a head cautiously protruded--that of Shad
Wells, followed immediately by another, swathed in a bandage which only
partially concealed the dark eyes and beard of Yakimov the Russian. It
took considerable exercise of will on Peter's part to remain quiescent
with the stare of those four eyes upon him, especially when he noted the
weapon in the fingers of the Russian. But he waited until the two men
got into the room.

"There he is. You got him, Yakimov," said Shad with a laugh.

"Perhaps----" Peter heard, "but I'll make sure of it----"

Yakimov's pistol rose slowly, halfway to the level of his eyes. But it
was never fired, for Peter's revolver flashed fire, twice--three times,
and Yakimov with a sudden wide stare at vacancy pitched forward and
crashed down. The surprise was complete, for a fourth shot went into the
right arm of Shad Wells, which ruined h