e things were the promptings responsible for his present
actions. Some hideous psychological twist was driving him. Some
passion swayed him over which he had no control whatever. Some
degeneracy was upsetting his mental balance, and forcing him against
his better instincts. But, even so, his whole attitude was that of a
man of clear, alert mind, of iron purpose, of a courage invincible.

Calm and cold Wild Bill crouched while, in the first rush of battle,
the shots hailed about him. He reserved his fire, too, waiting for the
effective moment with the patience of a skillful general. His every
shot must tell, and tell desperately.

Three times he was hit in as many seconds, but beyond hugging his
flimsy shelter more closely he gave no sign. His purpose rose above
all physical hurt or sense of pain. He was watching the movements of
one man--of one man only. His gleaming eyes pursued the figure of the
outlaw leader to the exclusion of all else. James was his quarry. The
rest--well, the rest were merely incidental.

And, emboldened by his intended victim's silence, James suddenly
changed his tactics. A long-ranged battle was little enough to his
savage taste. He ceased the ineffective fire of his men and brought
them together. Then in a moment, with the reckless abandon of his
class, he headed them and charged. They came, as before, with a brazen
shout, and the air was hideous with a fresh outburst of blasphemy,
while a rush of lead searched the fragile cart in every direction.

But the din of voices, the crash of woodwork as the panels of the cart
were riddled by the wildly flung shots, was powerless to draw the
defender. His guns were ready. He was ready for the purpose in his
mind. That was all. His fierce eyes lit with a murderous intent as he
calculated with certainty and exactness.

On they came. They drove their maddened horses with savage spurs right
up to the cart. It was the moment the gambler awaited. He leapt, and
in a flash his tall figure was confronting the leader of the attack.
And as he rose his arms were outstretched and his great guns belched
their murderous fire. Two men rolled from their saddles with a
death-scream that died down to a hideous gurgle, as the racing hoofs
trod the last atom of life out of their bodies. His guns belched a
second time, and James' throat was plowed open, and the rich red blood
spurted in a ghastly tide. Another shot and another man fell forward,
clutching his horse's man