“It all takes place in a moment.  Thar’s a clattering rush; an’ then, pony a-muck with sweat an’ alkali dust, Silver Phil shows in the portals of the Red Light.  Thar’s a flash an’ a spit of white smoke as he fires his six-shooter straight at Faro Nell.

“Silver Phil is quick, but Cherokee is quicker.  Cherokee sweeps Faro Nell from her stool with one motion of his arm an’ the bullet that’s searchin’ for her lifts Cherokee’s ha’r a trifle where he ’most gets his head in its way.

“Ondoubted, this Silver Phil allows he c’llects on Faro Nell as planned.  He don’t shoot twice, an’ he don’t tarry none, but wheels his wearied pony, gives a yell, an’ goes surgin’ off.

“But Silver Phil’s got down to the turn of that evil deal of his existence.  He ain’t two hundred yards when Dan Boggs is in the saddle an’ ridin’ hard.  Dan’s bronco runs three foot for every one of the pony of Silver Phil’s; which that beaten an’ broken cayouse is eighty miles from his last mouthful of grass.

“As Dan begins to crowd him, Silver Phil turns in the saddle an’ shoots.  The lead goes ‘way off yonder—­wild.  Dan, grim an’ silent, rides on without returnin’ the fire.

“‘Which I wouldn’t dishonour them guns of mine,’ says Dan, explainin’ later the pheenomenon of him not shootin’ none, ’which I wouldn’t dishonour them guns by usin’ ’em on varmints like this yere Silver Phil.’

“As Silver Phil reorganises for a second shot his bronco stumbles.  Silver Phil pitches from the saddle an’ strikes the grass to one side.  As he half rises, Dan lowers on him like the swoop of a hawk.  It’s as though Dan’s goin’ to snatch a handkerchief from the ground.

“As Dan flashes by, he swings low from the saddle an’ his right hand takes a troo full grip on that outlaw’s shoulder.  Dan has the thews an’ muscles of a cinnamon b’ar, an’ Silver Phil is only a scrap of a man.  As Dan straightens up in the stirrups, he heaves this Silver Phil on high to the length of his long arm; an’ then he dashes him ag’inst the flint-hard earth; which the manoover—­we-all witnesses it from mebby a quarter of a mile—­which the manoover that a-way is shore remorseless!  This Silver Phil is nothin’ but shattered bones an’ bleedin’ pulp.  He strikes the plains like he’s crime from the clouds an’ is dead without a quiver.

“‘Bury him?  No!’ says Old Man Enright to Dave Tutt who asks the question.  ’Let him find his bed where he falls.

“While Enright speaks, an’ as Dan rides up to us at the Red Light, a prompt raven drops down over where this Silver Phil is layin’.  Then another raven an’ another—­black an’ wide of wing—­comes floatin’ down.  A coyote yells—­first with the short, sharp yelp, an’ then with that multiplied patter of laughter like forty wolves at once.  That daylight howl of the coyote alters tells of a death.  Shore raven an’ wolf is gatherin’.  As Enright says:  ’This yere Silver Phil ain’t likely to be lonesome none to-night.’