round into pulp. The
fingers about to close on the handle of the revolver grew limp, the
Greek's head, a hideous, scarcely recognizable mass, slumped to one side
and lay perfectly still.

An instant longer the Ramblin' Kid looked at him, then reached over,
picked up his gun and slipped it into the holster at his hip.

As he straightened up, Tom Poole, the marshal, rushed into the
pool-room. He covered the Ramblin' Kid with his revolver and placed him
under arrest.

"You don't need to get excited, Tom!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed. "I
didn't do nothin' but kill that damned black cur layin' there! Come
on--I want to get out in th' air--I never like to stay around where dead
skunks are!"

They moved toward the door.

Poole dropped his gun back in its scabbard and walked at the side of the
now apparently peaceful young cowboy.

At the door the marshal looked around:

"Some of you fellers get the doctor or undertaker--whichever he
needs--and take care of Sabota!" he called to the group around the body
of the Greek.

Like a flash the muzzle of the Ramblin' Kid's gun was pressed against
the side of Poole.

"Put 'em up, Tom!" he snapped, "_I_ don't want to kill you, but I will
if I have to--I ain't goin' to rot in no jail just for stampin' a dirty
snake-to death!"

The marshal's hands shot into the air as if operated by springs.

The Ramblin' Kid, with his left hand, jerked Poole's revolver from its
holster. He backed into the street toward where Captain Jack and Old Pie
Face were standing, still with his own gun covering the officer.

"Jack!" he cried sharply, "meet me!"

The little stallion moved toward him.

With the thumb of the hand in which he held the marshal's gun the
Ramblin' Kid threw open the breech and flipped the shells on the ground.
He tossed the empty forty-four to one side, threw the reins over
Captain Jack's head and the next instant was in the saddle. The broncho
wheeled and was gone, in a dead run, toward the west.

The marshal rushed into the street and picked up his gun, jerked some
cartridges from his belt, slipped them into the cylinder and fired
quickly at the fleeing horse and rider.

The bullets whistled past the ear of the Ramblin' Kid.

He raised his own weapon, half-turned in the saddle, dropped the muzzle
of the gun forward until it pointed at the flashes spitting from the
officer's revolver. His finger started to tighten on the trigger.

"Hell," he muttered, "what's the use?