and took his place. The others drew back along the walls
of the room. Kilduff took the lamp from the table and held it high
above his head. Even then the light was dim and uncertain and the
draughts set the flame wavering so that the place was shaken with
shadows. The moon sent a feeble shaft of light through the window.

"One!" said Kilduff.

The shoulders of Haines and Silent hunched slightly.

"Two!" said Kilduff.

"God," whispered someone.

"Three. Fire!"

They whirled, their guns exploding at almost the same instant, and
Silent lunged for the floor, firing twice as he fell. Haines's second
shot split the wall behind Silent. If the outlaw chief had remained
standing the bullet would have passed through his head. But as Silent
fired the third time the revolver dropped clattering from the hand of
Haines. Buck caught him as he toppled inertly forward, coughing blood.

Silent was on his feet instantly.

"Stand back!" he roared to his men, who crowded about the fallen long
rider. "Stand back in your places. I ain't finished. I'm jest started.
Buck, take your place!"

"Boys!" pleaded Buck, "he's not dead, but he'll bleed to death
unless--"

"Damn him, let him bleed. Stand up, Buck, or by God I'll shoot you
while you kneel there!"

"_Shoot and be damned!_"

He tore off his shirt and ripped away a long strip for a bandage.

The revolver poised in Silent's hand.

"Buck, I'm warnin' you for the last time!"

"Fellers, it's murder an' damnation for all if you let Haines die this
way!" cried Buck.

The shining barrel of the revolver dropped to a level.

"I've given you a man's chance," said Silent, "an' now you'll have the
chance of--"

The door at the side of the room jerked open and a revolver cracked.
The lamp shivered to a thousand pieces in the hands of Bill Kilduff.
All the room was reduced to a place of formless shadow, dimly lighted
by the shaft of moonlight. The voice of Jim Silent, strangely changed
and sharpened from his usual bass roar, shrilled over the sudden
tumult: "Each man for himself! _It's Whistling Dan!_"

Terry Jordan and Bill Kilduff rushed at the dim figure, crouched to
the floor. Their guns spat fire, but they merely lighted the way to
their own destruction. Twice Dan's revolver spoke, and they dropped,
yelling. Pandemonium fell on the room.

The long riders raced here and there, the revolvers coughing fire. For
an instant Hal Purvis stood framed against the pallid moonshine at