over other men's lives, and it sent a train
of chilly-weakness through his blood.

"It's a habit of mine," said Jerry Strann, "to kill mad dogs when I see
'em." And he smiled again.

They stood for another long instant, facing each other. It was plain
that every muscle in Strann's body was growing tense; the very smile was
frozen on his lips. When he moved, at last, it was a convulsive jerk of
his arm, and it was said, afterward, that his gun was all clear of the
leather before the calm stranger stirred. No eye followed what happened.
Can the eye follow such speed as the cracking lash of a whip?

There was only one report. The forefinger of Strann did not touch his
trigger, but the gun slipped down and dangled loosely from his hand. He
made a pace forward with his smile grown to an idiotic thing and a
patch of red sprang out in the centre of his breast. Then he lurched
headlong to the floor.

CHAPTER X

"SWEET ADELINE"

Fatty Matthews came panting through the doors. He was one of those men
who have a leisurely build and a purely American desire for action; so
that he was always hurrying and always puffing. If he mounted a horse,
sweat started out from every pore; if he swallowed a glass of red-eye he
breathed hard thereafter. Yet he was capable of great and sustained
exertions, as many and many a man in the Three B's could testify. He was
ashamed of his fat. Imagine the soul of a Bald Eagle in the body of a
Poland China sow and you begin to have some idea of Fatty Matthews. Fat
filled his boots as with water and he made a "squnching" sound when he
walked; fat rolled along his jowls; fat made his very forehead flabby;
fat almost buried his eyes. But nothing could conceal the hawk-line of
his nose or the gleam of those half-buried eyes. His hair was
short-cropped, grey, and stood on end like bristles, and he was in the
habit of using his panting breath in humming--for that concealed the
puffing. So Fatty Matthews came through the doors and his little,
concealed eyes darted from face to face. Then he kneeled beside Strann.

He was humming as he opened Jerry's shirt; he was humming as he pulled
from his bag--for Fatty was almost as much doctor as he was marshal,
cowpuncher, miner, and gambler--a roll of cotton and another roll of
bandages. The crowd grouped around him, fascinated, and at his
directions some of them brought water and others raised and turned the
body while the marshal made the bandages; Jerr