figure of a tall man alight and dart across
the platform, to vanish in the shadow of the station. Simultaneously,
there came to their ears the staccato reports of pistols, the sounds
rendered faint and muffled by distance.

Singleton flashed around, his face pale and his eyes bulging.

"It's Lawler! I'd know him among a million! An' somethin's happened at
the Wolf. That's where the shootin' is! Warden," he said, nervously; "it
looks like there's goin' to be hell to pay!"

Warden's face was ashen, but he laughed.

"Don't worry, Singleton; Slade will take care of Lawler," he said. But
the words carried no conviction with them--they had been uttered without
expression.

Warden walked to the door and gazed down the dimly lighted stairway.
There was suppressed excitement in his manner, nervous anxiety in his
eyes. He walked back into the room, threw his cigar into a cuspidor, and
stood with his back to the stove, listening.

Singleton said nothing; though his lips had settled into a pout and his
eyes had a sullen, malignant expression. He, too, was wishing--what
Warden was wishing--that Slade would kill Lawler. The death of Lawler
would make the future safe for both of them; it would remove a menace to
their lives and a barrier to their schemes for the autocratic control of
the cattle industry.

But they doubted. Deep in their hearts lurked a fear that something had
gone wrong--which thought was suggested by the sounds of the shooting
they had heard.

Singleton had become afflicted with the nervousness that had seized
Warden. The pout on his lips grew; he cast startled, inquiring glances
toward the door. And at last, as they stood silent, looking at each
other, there came a sound--close; the sound of a man walking in the
street. As they listened the sound came closer, reached the front of the
building. Then they heard it on the stairs. Warden stiffened, and
Singleton drew his gun. An instant later the door crashed inward, and
Lawler stood in the opening, his eyes flaming with the cold wrath that
had been in them on the day when, after he had killed Antrim, he had
come to Warden's office for a like purpose.

There was no word spoken. Lawler saw the gun in Singleton's hand. He
leaped quickly to one side as Singleton pulled the trigger--the smoke
streak touching his clothing as he moved. He leaped again as Singleton
shot at him a second time. This time he was so close to Singleton that
the powder burned his face. An