. Nan, agonizing in her suspense, cried out she must join him
and go with him if he went. He steadied her apprehension and with a
few words reminded her, as a riflewoman, what a gamble every shot at a
height such as they occupied, and with such a wind, must be. He
reminded her, too, it was much easier to shoot down than up, but all
the time he was searching for the flash that should point the
assassin. A bullet struck again viciously close between them. De Spain
spoke slowly: "Give me your rifle." Without turning his head he held
out his hand, keeping his eyes rigidly on the suspicious spot on the
ridge. "How far is it to that road, Nan?"

She looked toward the faint line that lay in the deep shadows below.
"Three hundred yards."

"Nan, if it wasn't for you, I couldn't travel this country at all," he
remarked with studious unconcern. "Last time I had no ammunition--this
time, no rifle--you always have what's needed. How high are we, Nan?"

"Seven hundred feet."

"Elevate for me, Nan, will you?"

"Remember the wind," she faltered, adjusting the sight as he had
asked.

With the cautioning words she passed the burnished weapon, glittering
yet with the rain-drops, into his hand. A flash came from the distant
ridge. Throwing the rifle to his shoulder, de Spain covered a hardly
perceptible black object on the trail midway between Sassoon's
ranch-house and a little bridge which he well remembered--he had
crossed it the night he dragged Sassoon into town. It seemed a long
time that he pressed the rifle back against his shoulder and held his
eye along the barrel. He was wondering as he covered the crouching
man with the deadly sight which of his enemies this might be. He even
slipped the rifle from his shoulder and looked long and silently at
the black speck before he drew the weapon back again into place. Then
he fired before Nan could believe he had lined the sights. Once,
twice, three times his hand fell and rose sharply on the lever, with
every mark of precision, yet so rapidly Nan could not understand how
he could discover what his shots were doing.

The fire came steadily back, and deliberately, without the least
intimation of being affected by de Spain's return. It was a duel shorn
of every element of equality, with an assassin at one end of the
range, and a man flattened half-way up the clouds against El Capitan
at the other, each determined to kill the other before he should stir
one more foot.

Far above, an