ced the
same man again. Half a dozen sympathizers offered gratuitous condolence
and advice and all were positive that they knew where Mr. Cassidy and
Mr. Connors would go when they died.

The rolling thunder of madly pounding hoofs disturbed their post-mortem
and they arose in a body to flee from half their number, who, guns in
hands, charged down upon them through clouds of sickly white smoke.
Travennes' Terrors were minus many weapons and they could not be
expected to give a glorious account of themselves. Windows rattled and
fell in and doors and walls gave off peculiar sounds as they grew full
of holes. Above the riot rattled the incessant crack of Colt's and
Winchester, emphasized at close intervals by the assertive roar of
buffalo guns. Off to the south came another rumble of hoofs and Mr.
Connors, leading the second squad,--arrived to participate in the
payment of the debt.

Smoke spurted from windows and other points of vantage and hung wavering
in the heated air. The shattering of woodwork told of heavy slugs
finding their rest, and the whines that grew and diminished in the air
sang the course of .45s.

While the fight raged hottest Mr. Nelson sprang from his horse and ran
to the "Palace," where he collected and piled a heap of tinder like
wood, and soon the building burst out in flames, which, spreading, swept
the town from end to end.

Mr. Cassidy fired slowly and seemed to be waiting for something. Mr.
Connors laid aside his hot Winchester and devoted his attention to his
Colts. A spurt of flame and smoke leaped from the window of a 'dobe
hut and Mr. Connors sat down, firing as he went. A howl from the window
informed him that he had made a hit, and Mr. Cassidy ran out and dragged
him to the shelter of a near-by bowlder and asked how much he was hurt.

"Not much--in the calf," grunted Mr. Connors. "He was a bad shot--must
have been the cuss that got away yesterday," speculated the injured
man as he slowly arose to his feet. Mr. Cassidy dissented from force of
habit and returned to his station. Mr. Travennes, who was sleeping
late that morning, coughed and fought for air in his sleep, awakened in
smoke, rubbed his eyes to make sure and, scorning trousers and shirt,
ran clad in his red woolen undergarments to the corral, where he mounted
his scared horse and rode for the desert and safety.

Mr. Cassidy, swearing at the marksmanship of a man who fired at his head
and perforated his sombrero, saw a crims