dust. Facing
it, bending slightly forward, stood a man, holding a gun in his right
hand.

Suddenly out of the dust cloud staggered a second, who rushed at the
first, head down, extended fingers wildly clutching, and as he came he
bellowed hoarsely the wild-bull cry of the fighting male, crazed with
pain or anger. The gun in the hand of the first man flashed up and cut
down; and, as it hung for an instant at the level, the report rapped
through the still air. But the other, apparently unhurt, charged into
him, and both went down together.

[Illustration: AS HE CAME HE BELLOWED HOARSELY THE WILD-BULL CRY OF THE
FIGHTING MALE, CRAZED WITH PAIN OR ANGER]

"It's big Oscar!" cried McHale. "That feller downed his horse. Holy
catamounts! Look at them mix it! And here's the whole camp a-boilin'
after us! Casey, did I hear you say this was the day I didn't need a
gun?"

Before they could pull up they almost ran over the fighting men. The
two were locked in ferocious grips. The big guardian of the gate was
fighting for his life, silently, with clenched teeth, every cord and
muscle and vein standing out with the heartbreaking strain put upon
them.

For the big Swede was the stronger man. Ordinarily mild and
sweet-tempered, he was now a wild beast. Foam blew from his mouth and
flecked his soft, golden beard, and he rumbled and snarled, beast-like,
in his throat. He made no attempt to strike or to avoid the blows which
beat against his face; but with one arm around his enemy's neck, the
hand gripping the nearer side of the jaw, and the other hand pushing at
it, he strove to break his neck. Little by little he twisted it.
Gradually the chin pointed to the shoulder, almost past it. It seemed
that with the fraction of an inch more the vertebral column must crack
like a stick of candy. But the hand on the jaw slipped, and the chin,
released, shot back again, to be tucked desperately down against the
breastbone.

"Get in here and pull Oscar off!" cried Casey as he leaped from his
horse.

"Not in a thousand years," McHale responded. "He can kill him. Let him
do it. Serve the cuss right."

"You cursed fool!" snarled Casey. "That gang will be here in half a
holy minute. They'll pound Oscar to death if he's fighting then. Here,
you crazy Swede, let go! Let go, I say! It's me--Casey Dunne!"

But Oscar was past reason. Once more he had got the palm of his hand
beneath that stubborn chin and was lifting it from its shelter. As he