horse was running with tail tucked down. Waring threw his
remaining shot at High Chin, and, spurring Dex, stood in his stirrups as
he reloaded his gun.

The rider ahead was rocking in the saddle. He had been hit, although
Waring could not recall having shot at him. Suddenly the horse went
down, and Andy Brewster pitched to the sand. Waring laughed and reined
round on the run, expecting each instant to feel the blunt shock of a
bullet. High Chin was still sitting his horse, his gun held muzzle up.
Evidently he was not hard hit, or, if he were, he was holding himself
for a final shot at Waring. Behind him, almost beneath his horse, his
brother Tony had raised himself on his elbow and was fumbling with his
empty gun.

Waring rode slowly toward High Chin. High Chin's hand jerked down.
Waring's wrist moved in answer. The two reports blended in a blunt,
echoless roar. Waring felt a shock that numbed his thigh. High Chin sat
stiffly in the saddle, his hand clasping the horn. He turned and gazed
down at his brother.

"Thought you got him," said Tony Brewster from the ground. "Sit still
and I'll get him from under your horse."

Waring knew now that High Chin was hit hard. The foreman had let his gun
slip from his fingers. Waring saw a slight movement just beneath High
Chin's horse. A shock lifted him from the saddle, and he dropped to the
ground as Tony Brewster fired. But there was no such thing as quit just
so long as Waring could see to shoot. Dragging himself to his gun, he
shook the sand from its muzzle. He knew that he could not last long.
Already flecks of fire danced before his eyes. He bit his lip as he
raised himself and drew fine on that black figure beneath High Chin's
horse. The gun jumped in his hand. Waring saw the black figure twitch
and roll over. Then his sight grew clouded. He tried to brush away the
blur that grew and spread. For an instant his eyes cleared. High Chin
still sat upright in the saddle. Waring raised his gun and fired
quickly. As his hand dropped to the sand, High Chin pitched headlong and
lay still.

Then came a soft black veil that hid the glimmering sun and the wide
desert reaches.

High Chin, his legs paralyzed by a slug that had torn through his
abdomen and lodged in his spine, knew that he had made his last fight.
He braced himself on his hands and called to his brother Tony. But his
brother did not answer. High Chin's horse had strayed, and was grazing
up the arroyo. The stricken