was the last moment. They were saying good-bye.

Merryfield covered the bandit with his revolver.

"Put up your hands! You are under arrest," he commanded.

"Who the hell are you!" Drake flung back. As he spoke he thrust his
rifle into the grasp of the woman and snatched his right hand from its
concealment. In its grip glistened the barrel of a nickel-plated
revolver.

Merryfield could have easily shot him then and there--would have been
amply warranted in doing so. But he had heard the children's voices. Now
he saw their innocent, terrified eyes.

"Poor--little--kiddies!" he thought again.

Drake stood six feet two inches high, and weighed some two hundred
pounds, all brawn. Furthermore, he was desperate. Merryfield is merely
of medium build.

"Nevertheless, I'll take a chance," he said to himself, returning his
six-shooter to its holster. And just as the outlaw threw up his own
weapon to fire, the Trooper, in a running jump, plunged into him with
all fours, exactly as, when a boy, he had plunged off a springboard into
the old mill-dam of a hot July afternoon.

Too amazed even to pull his trigger, Drake gave backward a step into the
doorway. Merryfield's clutch toward his right hand missed the gun,
fastening instead on the sleeve of his heavy coat. Swearing wildly while
the woman and children screamed behind him, the bandit struggled to
break the Trooper's hold--tore and pulled until the sleeve, where
Merryfield held it, worked down over the gun in his own grip. So
Merryfield, twisting the sleeve, caught a lock-hold on hand and gun
together.

Drake, standing on the doorsill, had now some eight inches advantage of
height. The door opened inward, from right to left. With a tremendous
effort Drake forced his assailant to his knees, stepped back into the
room, seized the door with his left hand and with the whole weight on
his shoulder slammed it to, on the Trooper's wrist.

The pain was excruciating--but it did not break that lock-hold on the
outlaw's hand and gun. Shooting from his knees like a projectile,
Merryfield flung his whole weight at the door. Big as Drake was, he
could not hold it. It gave, and once more the two men hung at grips,
this time within the room.

Drake's one purpose was to turn the muzzle of his imprisoned revolver
upon Merryfield. Merryfield, with his left still clinching that deadly
hand caught in its sleeve, now grabbed the revolver in his own right
hand, with a twist dragged it fre