His hand on the shoulder of Shorty, he cried:  “Is he badly burned?”

“Shot,” said Kilrain bitterly, “by the tenderfoot; done for.”

It was strange to hear the big voice go shrill with pain.

“Shot?  By Anthony?  Give him to me.”

Kilrain lowered his burden to the ground.

“You’ve got him murdered.  Ain’t you through with him?  Calamity, he was my pal!”

But the big man thrust him aside and knelt by the stricken cowpuncher.

He commanded:  “Gather the boys; form a line of buckets from the pump; fight that fire.  It hasn’t a hold on the house yet.”

The habit of obedience persisted in Kilrain.  Under the glow of the fire, excited by the red light, the other man stood irresolute, eager for action, but not knowing what to do.  A picture came back to him of a ship labouring in a storm; the huddling men on the deck; the mate on the bridge, shrieking his orders through a megaphone.  He cupped his hands at his mouth and began to bark orders.

They obeyed on the run.  Some rushed for the kitchen and secured buckets; two manned the big pump and started a great gush of water; in a moment a steady stream was being flung by the foremost men of the line against the smoking walls and even the ceiling of the dining-room.  So far it was the oil itself, which had made most of the flame and smoke, and now, although the big table was on fire, the main structure of the house was hardly touched.

They caught it in time and worked with a cheer, swinging the buckets from hand to hand, shouting as the flames fell little by little until the floor of the room was awash, the walls gave back clouds of steam, and the only fire was that which smouldered along the ruined table.  Even this went out, hissing, at last, and they came back with blackened, singed faces to Calamity and Drew.

The rancher had torn away the coat and shirt of the wounded man, and now, with much labour, was twisting a tight bandage around his chest.  At every turn Calamity groaned feebly.  Kilrain dropped beside his partner, taking the head between his hands.

“Calamity—­pal,” he said, “how’d you let a tenderfoot, a damned tenderfoot, do this?”

The other sighed:  “I dunno.  I had him covered.  I should have sent him to hell.  But sure shootin’ is better’n fast shootin’.  He nailed me fair and square while I was blockin’ him at the door.”

“How d’you feel?”

“Done for, Shorty, but damned glad that-----”

His voice died away in a horrible whisper and bubbles of red foam rose to his lips.

“God!” groaned Shorty, and then called loudly, as if the strength of his voice might recall the other, “Calamity!”

The eyes of Calamity rolled up; the wide lips twisted over formless words; there was no sound from his mouth.  Someone was holding a lantern whose light fell full on the silent struggle.  It was Nash, his habitual sneer grown more malevolent than ever.