“Wade, I’ve been a gambler all my life, an’ a damn smart one, if I do say it myself,” declared the rustler leader, his voice inharmonious with the facetiousness of his words.  “An’ I’ll make a last bet.”

“Go ahead, Cap.  What’ll you bet?” answered the cold voice, still gentle, but different now in its inflection.

“By Gawd!  I’ll bet all the gold hyar that Hell-Bent Wade wouldn’t shoot any man in the back!”

“You win!”

Slowly and stiffly the rustler rose to his feet.  When he reached his height he deliberately swung his leg to kick Belllounds in the face.

“Thar!  I’d like to have a reckonin’ with you, Buster Jack,” he said.  “I ain’t dealin’ the cards hyar.  But somethin’ tells me thet, shaky as I am in my boots, I’d liefer be in mine than yours.”

With that, and expelling a heavy breath, he wrestled around to confront the hunter.

“Wade.  I’ve no hunch to your game, but it’s slower’n I recollect you.”

“Why, Cap, I was in a talkin’ humor,” replied Wade.

“Hell!  You’re up to some dodge.  What’d you care fer my learnin’ thet pup had double-crossed me?  You won’t let me kill him.”

“I reckon I wanted him to learn what real men thought of him.”

“Ahuh!  Wal, an’ now I’ve onlightened him, what’s the next deal?”

“You’ll all go to Kremmlin’ with me an’ I’ll turn you over to Sheriff Burley.”

That was the gauntlet thrown down by Wade.  It was not unexpected, and acceptance seemed a relief.  Folsom’s eyeballs became living fire with the desperate gleam of the reckless chances of life.  Cutthroat he might have been, but he was brave, and he proved the significance of Wade’s attitude.

“Pards, hyar’s to luck!” he rang out, hoarsely, and with pantherish quickness he leaped for his gun.

A tense, surcharged instant—­then all four men, as if released by some galvanized current of rapidity, flashed into action.  Guns boomed in unison.  Spurts of red, clouds of smoke, ringing reports, and hoarse cries filled the cabin.  Wade had fired as he leaped.  There was a thudding patter of lead upon the walls.  The hunter flung himself prostrate behind the bough framework that had served as bedstead.  It was made of spruce boughs, thick and substantial.  Wade had not calculated falsely in estimating it as a bulwark of defense.  Pulling his second gun, he peeped from behind the covert.

Smoke was lifting, and drifting out of door and windows.  The atmosphere cleared.  Belllounds sagged against the wall, pallid, with protruding eyes of horror on the scene before him.  The dark-skinned little man lay writhing.  All at once a tremor stilled his convulsions.  His body relaxed limply.  As if by magic his hand loosened on the smoking gun.  Folsom was on his knees, reeling and swaying, waving his gun, peering like a drunken man for some lost object.  His temple appeared half shot away, a bloody and horrible sight.