r fight, the
Rangers would eventually either shoot the Dinsmores or run them out of
the country. But Pete was beyond reason just now. He was like a man with
a toothache who grinds on his sore molar in the intensity of his pain.

"I've come to tell you somethin', Dinsmore," said Wadley harshly.

"Come to apologize for throwin' me down, I reckon. You needn't. I'm
through with you."

"I'm not through with you. What I want to say is that you're a dog. No,
you're worse than any hound I ever knew; you're a yellow wolf."

"What's that?" cried the bad-man, astounded. His uninjured hand crept to
a revolver-butt.

"I believe in my soul that you murdered my boy."

"You're crazy, man--locoed sure enough. The Mexican--"

"Is a witness against you. When you heard that he had followed Ford that
night, you got to worryin'. You didn't know how much he had seen. So you
decided to play safe an' lynch him, you hellhound."

"Where did you dream that stuff, Wadley?" demanded Dinsmore, eyes
narrowed wrathfully.

"I didn't dream it, any more than I dreamed that you followed Ford from
the cap-rock where you hole up, an' shot him from behind at Battle
Butte."

"That's war talk, Wadley. I've just got one word to say to it. You're a
liar. Come a-shootin', soon as you're ready."

"That's now."

The cattleman reached for his forty-five, but before he could draw, a
shot rang out from the corral. Wadley staggered forward a step or two
and collapsed.

Pete did not relax his wariness. He knew that one of the gang had shot
Wadley, but he did not yet know how badly the man was hurt. From his
place behind the horse he took a couple of left-handed shots across the
saddle at the helpless man. The cattleman raised himself on an elbow,
but fell back with a grunt.

The position of Dinsmore was an awkward one to fire from. Without
lifting his gaze from the victim, he edged slowly round the bronco.

There was a shout of terror, a sudden rush of hurried feet. The
stableboy had flung himself down on Wadley in such a way as to protect
the prostrate body with his own.

"Git away from there!" ordered the outlaw, his face distorted with the
lust for blood that comes to the man-killer.

"No. You've done enough harm. Let him alone!" cried the boy wildly.

The young fellow was gaunt and ragged. A thin beard straggled over the
boyish face. The lips were bloodless, and the eyes filled with fear. But
he made no move to scramble for safety. It was plain