Why did she not shoot?  Because she was a woman.  Because it is the God-given purpose of womanhood to give life, not take it.

The gun sank, sank—­down out of the light, down out of sight.

And the next instant he was upon her.

The flash-lamp was knocked from her hand and blinked out.  It struck the stove and she heard the tinkle of the broken lens.  The woman’s hand caught at the sacking before the window at her left shoulder.  Gripping it wildly to save herself from that onslaught, she tore it away.  For the second time the revolver was twisted from her raw fingers.

The man reared upward, over her.

“Where are you?” he roared again and again.  “I’ll show you!  Lemme at you!”

Outside the great yellow moon of early winter, arising late, was coming up over the silhouetted line of purple mountains to the eastward.  It illumined the cabin with a faint radiance, disclosing the woman crouching beneath the table.

The man saw her, pointed his weapon point-blank at her face and fired.

To Cora McBride, prostrate there in her terror, the impact of the bullet felt like the blow of a stick upon her cheek-bone rocking her head.  Her cheek felt warmly numb.  She pressed a quick hand involuntarily against it, and drew it away sticky with blood.

Click!  Click!  Click!

Three times the revolver mechanism was worked to accomplish her destruction.  But there was no further report.  The cylinder was empty.

“Oh, God!” the woman moaned.  “I fed you and offered to help you.  I refused to shoot you because of your mother—­your wife—­your babies.  And yet you——­”

“Where’s your cartridges?” he cried wildly.  “You got more; gimme that belt!”

She felt his touch upon her.  His crazy fingers tried to unbutton the clasp of the belt and holster.  But he could secure neither while she fought him.  He pinioned her at length with his knee.  His fingers secured a fistful of the cylinders from her girdle, and he opened the chamber of the revolver.

She realized the end was but a matter of moments.  Nothing but a miracle could save her now.

Convulsively she groped about for something with which to strike.  Nothing lay within reach of her bleeding fingers, however, but a little piece of dried sapling.  She tried to struggle loose, but the lunatic held her mercilessly.  He continued the mechanical loading of the revolver.

The semi-darkness of the hut, the outline of the moon afar through the uncurtained window—­these swam before her....  Suddenly her eyes riveted on that curtainless window and she uttered a terrifying cry.

Ruggam turned.

Outlined in the window aperture against the low-hung moon Martin
Wiley, the murdered deputy, was staring into the cabin!

From the fugitive’s throat came a gurgle.  Some of the cartridges he held spilled to the flooring.  Above her his figure became rigid.  There was no mistaking the identity of the apparition.  They saw the man’s hatless head and some of his neck.  They saw his dark pompadour and the outline of his skull.  As that horrible silhouette remained there, Wiley’s pompadour lifted slightly as it had done in life.