of those deadly breathing spaces of silence--silence,
except for the chattering of the lamp, as it steadied on the table and
finally was still. There was a light crunching noise from the opposite
side of the room. Cartwright had moved and put his foot on a fragment
of the shattered chimney.

Sinclair studied the window. It was a rectangle of dim light, but
nothing showed in that frame. He who had fired the shot must have
crouched at once, or else have drawn to one side. He waited with his
gun poised. Steps were sounding far away in the building, steps which
approached rapidly. Voices were calling. Somewhere on the farther side
of the room Cartwright must have found the best shelter he could, and
Sinclair shrewdly guessed that it would be on the far side of the chest
of drawers which faced him.

In the meantime he studied the blank rectangle of the window. Sooner or
later the man who stood on the ledge would risk a look into the dark
interior; otherwise, he would not be human. And, sure enough, presently
the faintest shadow of an outline encroached on the solid rectangle of
faint light. Sinclair aimed just to the right and fired. At once there
was a splash of red flame and a thundering report from the other side
of the room. Cartwright had fired at the flash of Sinclair's gun, and
the bullet smashed into the chest beside Sinclair. As for Sinclair's
own bullet, it brought only a stifled curse from the window.

"No good, Riley," sang out the voice. "This wall's too thick for a
Colt."

Sinclair had flung himself softly forward on his stomach, his gun in
readiness and leveled in the direction of Cartwright. There was the
prime necessity. Now heavy footfalls rushed down the hall, and a storm
of voices broke in upon him.

At the same time Cartwright's gun spat fire again. The bullet buzzed
angrily above Sinclair's head. His own brought a yell of pain, sharp as
the yelp of a coyote.

"Keep quiet, Cartwright," ordered the man at the window. "You'll get
yourself killed if you keep risking it. Sheriff!"

His voice rose and rang.

"Blow the lock off'n that door. We got him!"

There was an instant reply in the explosion of a gun, the crash of
broken metal, the door swung slowly in, admitting a dim twilight into
the room. The light showed Sinclair one thing--the dull outlines of
Cartwright. He whipped up his gun and then hesitated. It would be
murder. He had killed before, but never save in fair fight, standing in
a clear