.

If Slone had been inattentive to his surroundings before, the sight of
Cordts electrified him.

"Lucy! drop down! quick!"

"Oh, what's happened? You--you--"

"I've been shot. Drop down, I tell you. Get behind the horse an' pull
my rifle."

"Shot!" exclaimed Lucy, blankly.

"Yes--Yes.... My God! Lucy, he's goin' to shoot again!"

It was then Lucy Bostil saw Cordts across the gulch. He was not fifty
yards distant, plainly recognizable, tall, gaunt, sardonic. He held the
half-leveled gun ready as if waiting. He had waited there in ambush.
The clouds of smoke rolled up above him, hiding the crags.

"CORDTS!" Bostil's blood spoke in the girl's thrilling cry.

"Hunch down, Lucy!" cried Slone. "Pull my rifle.... I'm only
winged--not hurt. Hurry! He's goin'--"

Another heavy report interrupted Slone. The bullet missed, but Slone
made a pretense, a convulsive flop, as if struck.

"Get the rifle! Quick!" he called.

But Lucy misunderstood his ruse to deceive Cordts. She thought he had
been hit again. She ran to the fallen Wildfire and jerked the rifle
from its sheath.

Cordts had begun to climb round a ledge, evidently a short cut to get
down and across. Hutchinson saw the rifle and yelled to Cordts. The
horse-thief halted, his dark face gleaming toward Lucy.

When Lucy rose the coat fell from her nude shoulders. And Slone,
watching, suddenly lost his agony of terror for her and uttered a
pealing cry of defiance and of rapture.

She swept up the rifle. It wavered. Hutchinson was above, and Cordts,
reaching up, yelled for help. Hutchinson was reluctant. But the
stronger force dominated. He leaned down--clasped Cordts's outstretched
hands, and pulled. Hutchinson bawled out hoarsely. Cordts turned what
seemed a paler face. He had difficulty on the slight footing. He was
slow.

Slone tried to call to Lucy to shoot low, but his lips had drawn tight
after his one yell. Slone saw her white, rounded shoulders bent, with
cold, white face pressed against the rifle, with slim arms quivering
and growing tense, with the tangled golden hair blowing out.

Then she shot.

Slone's glance shifted. He did not see the bullet strike up dust. The
figures of the men remained the same--Hutchinson straining, Cordts....
No, Cordts was not the same! A strange change seemed manifest in his
long form. It did not seem instinct with effort. Yet it moved.

Hutchinson also was acting strangely, yelling, heaving, wrestling. But
he cou