moved; a revolver
flashed before him. Instantly and without consciousness that his
finger pulled the trigger, Eaton's pistol flashed back. In front of
him, the flame flashed again, and another spurt of fire spat at one
side.

Eaton fired back at this--he was prostrate on the floor now, and
whether he had been hit or not he did not yet know, or whether the
blood flowing down his face was only from a splinter sprayed from the
table behind which he had hid. He fired again, holding his pistol far
out to one side to confuse the aim of the others; he thought that they
too were doing the same and allowed for it in his aim. He pulled his
trigger a ninth time--he had not counted his shots, but he knew he had
had seven cartridges in the magazine and one in the barrel--and the
pistol clicked without discharging. He rolled over further away from
the spot where he had last fired and pulled an extra clip of cartridges
from his pocket.

The blood was flowing hot over his face. He made no effort to staunch
it or even to feel with his fingers to find exactly where or how badly
he had been hit. He jerked the empty cartridge clip from his pistol
butt and snapped in the other. He swept his sleeve over his face to
clear the blood from his brows and eyes and stared through the dark
with pistol at arm's-length loaded and ready. Blood spurted over his
face again; another sweep of his sleeve cleared it; and he moved his
pistol-point back and forth in the dark. The flash of the firing from
the other two revolvers had stopped; the roar of the shots had ceased
to deafen. Eaton had not counted the shots at him any better than he
had kept track of his own firing; but he knew now that the other two
must have emptied their magazines as well as he. It was possible, of
course, that he had killed one of them or wounded one mortally; but he
had no way to know that. He could hear the click as one of the men
snapped his revolver shut again after reloading; then another click
came. Both the others had reloaded.

"All right?" the voice which Eaton knew questioned the other.

"All right," came the reply.

But, if they were all right, they made no offer to fire first again.
Nor yet did they dare to move. Eaton knew they lay on the floor like
himself. They lay with fingers on trigger, as he also lay, waiting
again for him to move so they could shoot at him. But surely now the
sound of the firing in that room must have reached the man in th