orthward. All eyes were
glued, as if fascinated, to the deadly, sputtering fuse. Soon came the
dull, muffled roar of an explosion. The walls of the building sagged
outwards, the roof caved in, and the whole structure seemed to collapse
like a pack of cards, amid a cloud of dust.

For some few seconds the party gazed fearfully at the work of
destruction; then a loud cheer went up, and with one accord all dashed
forward, filled with eager, morbid curiosity as to what they might find
buried beneath the ruins.

Suddenly, midway between the brush and their objective they checked their
onrush and halted, staring in speechless amazement. Pushing his way up,
apparently from some hole beneath a pile of debris, appeared the figure
of a huge man.

In their excitement the attackers had overlooked the possibility of a
cellar existing below the stone foundation of the dwelling. At this
juncture the party from the river bank was rapidly approaching the ruins
from its western side. The posse was in a dilemma. Neither party dare
fire at its quarry between them for fear of hitting each other.

Gully apparently either did not realize the situation or did not care.
With face convulsed with passion, beyond all semblance to a human being,
he crouched and rushed the party on the eastern side of his wrecked home,
firing as he came. Badly hit, several of his assailants were speedily
_hor de combat_, among them, Hardy and McCullough. The whole incident
happened in quicker time than it takes to relate.

Then, from out the startled crowd there sprang a man. It was Slavin.
His hour had come. There was something appalling in the spectacle of the
two gigantic men rushing thus upon each other. Suddenly, Gully tripped
over a log and fell headlong, his deadly gun flying from his grasp. With
a sort of uncanny, cat-like agility he scrambled to his feet and strove
to recover his weapon. He was a fraction of a second too late. A kick
from Slavin sent it whirling several yards away, and the next moment the
opponents were upon each other.

At the first onslaught the issue of the combat seemed doubtful. The
ex-sheriff was no wrestler like Slavin, but he speedily demonstrated that
he was a boxer, as well as a gun-man. Cleverly eluding the grasp of his
powerful assailant for the moment, twice he rocked Slavin's head back
with fearful left and right swings to the jaw. With a bestial rumbling
in his throat, the sergeant countered with a pil