could only stand and wait. It would
be madness to advance.

So he stood, almost single-mindedly. He had a disagreeable duty to
perform, and he must perform it. Yet the lesser cells of his brain spoke
to him, too, and he realized that he must present a shocking sight to
law-abiding, happy people, if any should appear. He was glad that the
street was still deserted, and that he might reasonably hope to be
unseen.

Then his hand shot forward with the fierceness of a tiger's claw: there
had been a movement in the saloon entrance. Only by the fraction of a
second was the finger on the trigger stayed.

It was not Fectnor who appeared. Dunwoodie stepped into sight casually and
looked in Harboro's direction. The expression of amused curiosity in his
eyes swiftly gave place to almost comical amazement when he took in that
spasmodic movement of Harboro's.

"What's up?" he inquired. He approached Harboro leisurely.

"Stand aside, Dunwoodie," commanded Harboro harshly.

"Well, wait a minute," insisted Dunwoodie. "Calm yourself, man. I want to
talk to you. Fectnor's not in the saloon. He went on through and out the
back way."

Harboro wheeled with an almost despairing expression in his eyes. He
seemed to look at nothing, now--like a bird-dog that senses the nearness
of the invisible quarry. The thought came to him: "Fectnor may appear at
any point, behind me!" The man might have run back along the line of
buildings, seeking his own place to emerge again.

But Dunwoodie went on reassuringly. He had guessed the thought in
Harboro's mind. "No, he's quite gone. I watched him go. He's probably in
Mexico by this time--or well on his way, at least."

Harboro drew a deep breath. "You watched him go?"

"When he came into the saloon, like a rock out of a sling, he stopped just
long enough to grin, and fling out this--to me--'If you want to see a
funny sight, go out front.' Fectnor never did like me, anyway. Then he
scuttled back and out. I followed to see what was the matter. He made
straight for the bridge road. He was sprinting. He's gone."

Harboro's gun had disappeared. He was frowning; and then he realized that
Dunwoodie was looking at him with a quizzical expression.

He made no explanation, however.

"I must be getting along home," he said shortly. He was thinking of
Sylvia.

CHAPTER XVI

Dunwoodie was not given to talkativeness; moreover, he was a considerate
man, and he respected Harboro. Therefore it may b