In the end he tossed the cigarette stub away and rose to his feet.  He moved to the edge of the hole.  Spanning it, a hand resting on each edge, and with the revolver still in the right hand, he muscled his body down into the hole.  While his feet were yet a yard from the bottom he released his hands and dropped down.

At the instant his feet struck bottom he saw the pocket-miner’s arm leap out, and his own legs knew a swift, jerking grip that overthrew him.  In the nature of the jump his revolver hand was above his head.  Swiftly as the grip had flashed about his legs, just as swiftly he brought the revolver down.  He was still in the air, his fall in process of completion, when he pulled the trigger.  The explosion was deafening in the confined space.  The smoke filled the hole so that he could see nothing.  He struck the bottom on his back, and like a cat’s the pocket-miner’s body was on top of him.  Even as the miner’s body passed on top, the stranger crooked in his right arm to fire; and even in that instant the miner, with a quick thrust of elbow, struck his wrist.  The muzzle was thrown up and the bullet thudded into the dirt of the side of the hole.

The next instant the stranger felt the miner’s hand grip his wrist.  The struggle was now for the revolver.  Each man strove to turn it against the other’s body.  The smoke in the hole was clearing.  The stranger, lying on his back, was beginning to see dimly.  But suddenly he was blinded by a handful of dirt deliberately flung into his eyes by his antagonist.  In that moment of shock his grip on the revolver was broken.  In the next moment he felt a smashing darkness descend upon his brain, and in the midst of the darkness even the darkness ceased.

But the pocket-miner fired again and again, until the revolver was empty.  Then he tossed it from him and, breathing heavily, sat down on the dead man’s legs.

The miner was sobbing and struggling for breath.  “Measly skunk!” he panted; “a-campin’ on my trail an’ lettin’ me do the work, an’ then shootin’ me in the back!”

He was half crying from anger and exhaustion.  He peered at the face of the dead man.  It was sprinkled with loose dirt and gravel, and it was difficult to distinguish the features.

“Never laid eyes on him before,” the miner concluded his scrutiny.  “Just a common an’ ordinary thief, hang him!  An’ he shot me in the back!  He shot me in the back!”

He opened his shirt and felt himself, front and back, on his left side.

“Went clean through, and no harm done!” he cried jubilantly.  “I’ll bet he aimed all right all right; but he drew the gun over when he pulled the trigger—­the cur!  But I fixed ’m!  Oh, I fixed ’m!”

His fingers were investigating the bullet-hole in his side, and a shade of regret passed over his face.  “It’s goin’ to be stiffer’n hell,” he said.  “An’ it’s up to me to get mended an’ get out o’here.”

He crawled out of the hole and went down the hill to his camp.  Half an hour later he returned, leading his pack-horse.  His open shirt disclosed the rude bandages with which he had dressed his wound.  He was slow and awkward with his left-hand movements, but that did not prevent his using the arm.