e muzzle of the weapon against the motionless head. He would
not bungle this job, at any rate.

But even as his finger closed about the trigger, Constance Brevoort was
upon him with a spring like that of a lioness fighting for her mate, her
arms fully extended and both hands clutching the butt of the heavy .44
Colt. Instinctively he raised his weapon to fend off this new and
unlooked-for antagonist; but he was a moment too late. As the flame
leaped from the muzzle to his breast he numbly lowered the rifle, turned
half around, and walking forward a few steps, clutched blindly at the
air and sank limply to the ground. One spasmodic struggle in which he
turned over on his back and then he lay very still, his mouth distorted
by a ghastly grin.

At Ballard's signaling call, he was hastily rejoined by his posse and a
hurried examination of Douglass's wound was made. The bullet had entered
the skull just above the left temple, making its exit at the back of the
head just where the parting of the hair ended. From all appearances it
had passed directly through the upper portion of the brain, and Ballard
shook his head hopelessly. But the heart was still beating vigorously
and there was a very perceptible pulse.

A rider was dispatched instantly to the nearest ranch, some two miles
away, for a conveyance, returning quickly with a buckboard. A rude
stretcher was improvised, on which Douglass was tenderly carried to the
head of the trail, and with his head in Constance's lap he was carefully
but quickly driven to the hotel. A dozen riders were soon scouring the
suburbs for the doctor, who was out making his round of daily calls, and
just at noon he came riding post-haste. As it most fortunately happened,
he was a practitioner of ability and experience, having filled for years
the responsible position of operating surgeon in one of the East's most
famous hospitals.

"It's an extra thousand on the side from me if you save him, Doc," said
Ballard earnestly. "Don't you let my pard die!" The surgeon paused long
enough from his examination to give him an assuring hand-grip.

"That was superfluous, Ballard," he said quietly. "He is my friend,
too." And there was an appeal in the eyes of Constance Brevoort that
outweighed all the treasures of Golconda.

Ballard, looking at her sympathetically, suddenly received an
inspiration. Taking her quietly to one side he coughed apologetically
and finally stammered out:

"I don't want to butt