no right to be alive. His cheek bled
where a bullet had grazed him, his left arm was scratched, and there were
three holes in his clothes. His revolver was so hot he could hardly hold
it.

When they had finished their smoke they started back to their shelter, the
middle rock of the enclosure.

"Well, good-by, boys," said Jimmie. "I allow it's pretty near my turn an'
Chuck's."

"Good-by!" came the chorus from the owners, all of whom had pleaded
steadily with the two to give up the unequal struggle. These men were hard
and brave men, and they appreciated genuine grit as nothing else in the
world, for it was a great factor in their own make-up.

"I'll tell yuh this, Jimmie," called out Beef Bissell, whose conceptions
had been undergoing a radical change for the last two hours, "if you an'
Chuck are sheepmen, I take off my hat to yuh, that's all! I never seen
better fighters anywhere."

"Yuh ought to see us when we ain't dry-nursin' a dozen cattle-owners,"
retorted Welsh, amid a great guffaw of laughter.

Suddenly again sounded the roar of the galloping horses.

"Well, so-long, boys!" yelled Chuck, his voice barely audible.

"So-long."

The chorused response was cut short by the spitting of weapons. Chuck
faced to the left, Welsh to the right. Both pumped two guns as fast as
they could. Presently Chuck dropped one and leaned against the rock, his
face distorted, but the other gun going. Jimmie felt a stab of fire, and
found his weight all resting on one foot. Dropping their pistols, they
drew others from holsters and fought on.

A bullet furrowed Chuck's scalp, and the blood blinded him so that he
could not shoot. He stepped out from behind the rock, "fanning" one gun
and clearing his eyes with the other hand. Three bullets hit him at once,
and he dropped dead, firing three shots before he reached the ground.

He had scarcely fallen when Welsh's other leg and both arms were broken,
and he tumbled in a heap just as the last of the charging cowboys swept
past. When they had gone there was a moment's silence. Then:

"Hello, anybody!" called Speaker.

There was a pause.

"Hello!" came a muffled voice. "Come an' git me. I cain't fight no more."
And with a great shout the owner of the Circle Arrow outfit ran to where
Jimmie Welsh, the indomitable, lay helpless, disabled by six bullets, but
still full of fight.

"Stick me up on that wall, Billy," he said faintly, "an' put a gun in each
hand. I can't shoot 'em, b