he wooden partition, flickered a moment,
and burned steadily. The Texan's eyes widened as his hands closed about
the butts of his guns: "Goin' to burn me out, eh?" he sneered, and then,
with a smile, laid the two guns on the bar, and watched the glow that
softened the blackness about the edges of the screen. "They can't burn
me without burnin' up their whole damn little wooden town," he
speculated, "but what in the devil do they want with a light?" With the
words on his lips, the light moved, and once more he reached for his
guns. A candle appeared around the end of the partition that formed the
doorway. The Texan fired and the room was plunged into darkness. And
then--through the inky blackness, thick with the pungent powder smoke,
sounded a cry--a jerky, stabbing cry--a cry of mortal fear--a woman's
cry--_that_ woman's cry: "_Tex--Tex! Strike a light!_"

The Texan reeled as from a blow, the gun dropped from his nerveless
fingers and thudded upon the floor. He leaned weakly against the back
bar. He was conscious that his eyes were staring--straining to pierce
the blackness in the direction of the sound--and yet, he knew there was
nothing there! His mouth went dry and he could distinctly hear his own
breathing. He pulled himself jerkily erect and clawed the edge of the
bar. His groping hand closed about an object hard and cylindrical. It
was the quart bottle of whisky from which he had filled his glass.
Suddenly, he shuddered. "It's the booze," he thought, "it's got me--at
last--I'm--I'm _bugs_!" The bottle slipped through his fingers and
rolled along the bar and the air became heavy with the fumes of the
liquor that splashed unheeded from its mouth. He passed his hand across
his brow and withdrew it slippery and wet with sweat.

"_Christ!_" Thickly the word struggled from between the dry lips. He
stooped, his hand groping for the gun, his fingers closed uncertainly
upon the butt, and as he straightened up, the muzzle swung slowly into
line with his own forehead. And in that instant a light puff of cool air
fanned his dripping forehead. The gun stopped in its slow arc. The lids
closed for an instant over the horribly staring eyes. The shoulders
stiffened, and the gun was laid gently upon the bar--for, upon that
single puff of night air, delicate, subtile--yet unmistakably
distinguishable from the heavy powder smoke and the reeking fumes of
the whisky, was borne a breath of the wide open places. The man's
nostrils quive