wift. His automatic spoke, but
it spoke no quicker than a similar weapon in the hands of Murray
McTavish.

It was a situation pregnant with possibilities. The bulky body of the
trader of Fort Mowbray had moved with the quickness, the agility of
lightning. His glass had dropped to the filthy floor with a crash, and
its place in his hand had been taken by a pistol in the twinkle of an
eye. He was on his feet, and had hurled his bullet at the figure in
the doorway in the space of time elapsing between John Kars' startled
exclamation and the discharge of his weapon, which had been almost on
the instant.

With deadly purpose and skill Murray had taken no aim. He had fired
for the pit of the stomach with the instinct of the gunman. Perhaps it
was the haste, perhaps the whisky had left its effect on him. His shot
tore its way through Kars' pea-jacket, grazing the soft flesh of his
side below his ribs. The second and third shots, as the automatic did
its work, were even less successful. There was no fourth shot, for the
weapon dropped from Murray's nerveless hand as Kars' single shot tore
through his adversary's extended arm and shattered the bones.

The injured man promptly sought to recover his weapon with the other
hand. But no chance remained. A dusky figure leaped upon his back
from behind, and the dull gleam of a long knife flourished in the
lamplight.

Then came Kars' fierce tones.

"Push your hands up, blast you!"

Peigan Charley's arm was crooked about the trader's neck. There was no
mercy in his purpose. The fierce joy of the moment was intoxicating
him. The knife. He yearned, with savage lust, to drive it deep into
the fat body struggling under his hold. But Murray understood. One
hand went up. The other made an effort, but remained helpless at his
side. Instantly Kars stayed the ruthless hand of the savage.

"Quit it, Charley!" he cried. "Loose your hold and see to the other.
I got this one where I need him."

The Indian yielded reluctantly. He looked on for a moment while Kars
advanced and secured the trader's fallen weapon. Then he passed across
to the counter.

The half-breed was badly wounded. But the Indian had neither pity nor
scruple. He turned him over where he lay groaning across his counter.
He searched him and relieved him of a pair of loaded revolvers. Then,
standing over him, he waited for his chief.

Nor had he to wait long. Kars completed his work in silence. Fo