A shadow touched the sand at the mouth of the arroyo.  Waring leaned forward and drove in the spurs.  The big buckskin leaped to a run as he rounded the shoulder of the arroyo.

The three horsemen, who had been riding close together, spread out on the instant.  Waring threw a shot at the foremost figure even as High Chin’s first shot tore away the front of his shirt.  Waring fired again.  Tony Brewster, on the ground, emptied his gun as Waring spurred over him.  Turning in the saddle as he flashed past High Chin, Waring fired at close range at the other’s belt buckle.  Out on the levels, Andy Brewster’s 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 man writhed round, feeling no pain, but conscious of a horrible numbness across his back and abdomen.