s, his thrilling hopes, must come to an obscure end. It was a
miserable way to die, nothing to come out of it, no ennobling sacrifice
demanding it to lift a man's name beyond his day. In the history of this
violent place, this death-struggle against overwhelming numbers would be
only an incident. Men would say, in speaking of it, that his luck failed
him at last.

Morgan discovered with great concern that he had no cartridges left but
those in the chambers of his revolver. He considered making a dash for
the side of the square not yet on fire, where he might find support, at
least make a further stand with the arms and ammunition every
storekeeper had at hand.

As these thoughts swept him in the few seconds of their passing, Morgan
lay reserving his precious cartridges. The momentary suspension of his
defense, the silence of his rifle's defiant roar, which had held them
from closing in, perhaps led his assailants to believe him either dead
or disabled. They also stopped shooting, and the capricious wind, now
rising to a gale as it rushed into the fiery vacuum, bent down and
wheeled away the dust and smoke like a curtain suddenly drawn aside.

Craddock and such of his men as were left out of that half-minute
battle were scattered about the square in a more or less definite circle
around the spot where Morgan lay behind his horse, the nearest to him
being perhaps thirty yards away. The citizens of the town who had been
resisting the raiders, had come rushing to the square at the diversion
of the fight to that center. These began firing now on the raiders from
windows and doors and the corners of buildings. Craddock sent three of
his men charging against this force, now become more courageous and
dangerous, and with two at his side, one of whom was the Dutchman, he
came riding over to investigate Morgan's situation.

Morgan could see the Dutchman's face as he spurred on ahead of the
others. Pale, with a pallor inborn that sun and wind could not shade, a
wide grin splitting his face, the Dutchman came on eagerly, no doubt in
the hope that he would find a spark of conscious life in Morgan that he
could stamp out in some predesigned cruelty.

The Dutchman was leaning forward as he rode, revolver lifted to throw
down for a quick shot. When he had approached within two lengths of his
horse, Morgan lifted himself from the ground and fired. The Dutchman
sagged over the horn of his saddle like a man asleep, his horse
gallopin