of his opponents
back against Steve, who was sitting tailor fashion beside him. The gunman
tottered and fell over Russell, who lost no time in pinning his hands to
the ground while Hart deftly removed the revolver from his pocket.

Swinging round to face Miller, Dave saw at once that the big man had
chosen not to draw his gun. In spite of his fat the gambler was a
rough-and-tumble fighter of parts. The extra weight had come in recent
years, but underneath it lay roped muscles and heavy bones. Men often
remarked that they had never seen a fat man who could handle himself like
Ad Miller. The two clinched. Dave had the under hold and tried to trip
his bulkier foe. The other side-stepped, circling round. He got one hand
under the boy's chin and drove it up and back, flinging the range-rider
a dozen yards.

Instantly Dave plunged at him. He had to get at close quarters, for he
could not tell when Miller would change his mind and elect to fight with
a gun. The man had chosen a hand-to-hand tussle, Dave knew, because he
was sure he could beat so stringy an opponent as himself. Once he got the
grip on him that he wanted the big gambler would crush him by sheer
strength. So, though the youngster had to get close, he dared not clinch.
His judgment was that his best bet was his fists.

He jabbed at the big white face, ducked, and jabbed again. Now he was in
the shine of the moon; now he was in darkness. A red streak came out on
the white face opposite, and he knew he had drawn blood. Miller roared
like a bull and flailed away at him. More than one heavy blow jarred him,
sent a bolt of pain shooting through him. The only thing he saw was that
shining face. He pecked away at it with swift jabs, taking what
punishment he must and dodging the rest.

Miller was furious. He had intended to clean up this bantam in about a
minute. He rushed again, broke through Dave's defense, and closed with
him. His great arms crushed into the ribs of his lean opponent. As they
swung round and round, Dave gasped for breath. He twisted and squirmed,
trying to escape that deadly hug. Somehow he succeeded in tripping his
huge foe.

They went down locked together, Dave underneath. The puncher knew that if
he had room Miller would hammer his face to a pulp. He drew himself close
to the barrel body, arms and legs wound tight like hoops.

Miller gave a yell of pain. Instinctively Dave moved his legs higher and
clamped them tighter. The yell rose again,