at those gone he would never be
given time to reload, Howard came half a dozen paces toward Monte
before he stopped. He heard True's groaning curse; a spat of flame
from where the man lay showed him that he was still to be counted on.
But his shooting would be apt to be wild and he must be forgotten until
Devine was dealt with.

He was near enough to make out the gesture as Monte raised his arm.
And he was ready. Howard fired first; he saw the flare and heard the
report of Monte's gun and knew that he had missed. But Monte had not
missed. There was a searing pain across Howard's outer left arm, near
the shoulder. The pain came and was gone, like the flash of the gun;
remained only a mounting rage in Howard's brain. Three shots left and
three men still to fight. A shot for each man and none to waste, or
the tale would be told for Alan Howard. And there would be occasion
for Jim Courtot's jeering laugh tomorrow.

Before the smoke had cleared from Monte's gun Howard leaped closer, and
at this close range fired. He saw Monte reel back. He knew that Ed
True was still shooting, but he did not care. Monte was stumbling,
saving himself from falling, straightening again, lifting his gun. But
before the swaying figure could answer the call of the cool brain
directing it, Howard sprang in upon him and struck with his clubbed
revolver. And Monte Devine, his finger crooking to the trigger as the
blow fell, went down heavily from the impact of the gun-barrel against
his head. Ed True emptied his cylinder and cursed and began filling it
again.

Howard stood a moment over Monte Devine. Then he took up the fallen
revolver in his left hand and turned to True.

'Chuck your gun to me, Ed,' he commanded sternly, 'or I'll get you
right next time.'

True damned him violently. Then he groaned, and a moment later there
was the sound of his revolver hurled from him, clattering among the
stones. Howard took it up, shoved it into his pocket and turned toward
the gulch. While he sought for a sight of Bettins he hastily filled
the empty chambers of his own weapon.

Now only he realized how brief a time had elapsed since Ed True's first
shot. The grass fire was blazing, but had crept up the draw only a few
feet. And Bettins had not yet had the time to come from the other
side, down into the gulch and up on this side. He saw Bettins; the man
was standing still staring toward his fallen companions. The fire
leaped higher,