shot--fell back after the preliminary
fusillade, dismounted, and took shelter behind rocks and trees. On that
rugged ground, fighting from the saddle was impracticable. Dyke, in the
meanwhile, held his fire, for he knew that, once his pistol was empty,
he would never be allowed time to reload.

"Dyke," called the sheriff again, "for the last time, I summon you to
surrender."

Dyke did not reply. The sheriff, Delaney, and the man named Christian
conferred together in a low voice. Then Delaney and Christian left
the others, making a wide detour up the sides of the arroyo, to gain a
position to the left and somewhat to the rear of Dyke.

But it was at this moment that S. Behrman arrived. It could not be said
whether it was courage or carelessness that brought the Railroad's agent
within reach of Dyke's revolver. Possibly he was really a brave man;
possibly occupied with keeping an uncertain seat upon the back of his
labouring, scrambling horse, he had not noticed that he was so close
upon that scene of battle. He certainly did not observe the posse lying
upon the ground behind sheltering rocks and trees, and before anyone
could call a warning, he had ridden out into the open, within thirty
paces of Dyke's intrenchment.

Dyke saw. There was the arch-enemy; the man of all men whom he most
hated; the man who had ruined him, who had exasperated him and driven
him to crime, and who had instigated tireless pursuit through all those
past terrible weeks. Suddenly, inviting death, he leaped up and forward;
he had forgotten all else, all other considerations, at the sight of
this man. He would die, gladly, so only that S. Behrman died before him.

"I've got YOU, anyway," he shouted, as he ran forward.

The muzzle of the weapon was not ten feet from S. Behrman's huge stomach
as Dyke drew the trigger. Had the cartridge exploded, death, certain and
swift, would have followed, but at this, of all moments, the revolver
missed fire.

S. Behrman, with an unexpected agility, leaped from the saddle, and,
keeping his horse between him and Dyke, ran, dodging and ducking, from
tree to tree. His first shot a failure, Dyke fired again and again at
his enemy, emptying his revolver, reckless of consequences. His every
shot went wild, and before he could draw his knife, the whole posse was
upon him.

Without concerted plans, obeying no signal but the promptings of the
impulse that snatched, unerring, at opportunity--the men, Delaney and
C