chance
it had been deflected on the angle of the skull and merely ploughed a
bloody furrow through the mat of hair from forehead to the back of the
skull. He was stunned, but hardly more seriously hurt than if he had
been knocked down by a club.

"I've an idea," said the Easterner calmly, "that I owe my life to you,
Mr. Nash."

"Let that drop," answered the other.

"A quarter of an inch lower," said the girl, who was examining the
wound, "and Butch would have kissed the world good-bye."

Not till then did the full horror of the thing dawn on Bard. The girl
was no more excited than one of her Eastern cousins would have been over
a game of bridge, and the man in the most matter-of-fact manner, was
slipping another cartridge into the cylinder of the revolver, which he
then restored to the holster.

It still seemed incredible that the man could have drawn his gun and
fired it in that flash of time. He recalled his adventure with Butch
earlier that evening and with Sandy Ferguson before; for the first time
he realized what he had done and a cold horror possessed him like the
man who has nerves to walk the tight rope across the chasm and faints
when he looks back on the gorge from the safety of the other side. The
girl took command.

"Steve, run down to the marshal's office; Deputy Glendin is there."

She took the wet cloth and made a deft bandage for the head of Conklin.
With his shaggy hair covered, and all his face sagging with lines of
weariness, the gun-fighter seemed no more than a middle-aged man asleep,
worn out by trouble.

"Is there a doctor?" asked Bard anxiously.

"That ain't a case for a doctor--look here; you're in a blue faint. What
is the matter?"

"I don't know; I'm thinking of that quarter of an inch which would have
meant the difference to poor Conklin."

"'Poor' Conklin? Why, you fish, he was sneakin' in here to try his hand
on you. He found out he couldn't get his gang into town, so he slipped
in by himself. He'll get ten years for this--and a thousand if they hold
him up for the other things he's done."

"I know--and this fellow Nash was as quiet as the strike of a snake. If
he'd been a fraction of a second slower I might be where Conklin is now.
I'll never forget Nash for this."

She said pointedly: "No, he's a bad one to forget; keep an eye on him.
You spoke of a snake--that's how smooth Steve is."

"Remember your own motto, Miss Fortune. He saved my life; therefore I
must trust him