He had come for Vidal Nunez.  The man he wanted was yonder, but a few feet from him.  Duty and desire pointed across the room to the obscure corner.  He moved a cautious foot.  The floor complained under his shifting weight and from Galloway’s quarter came a spit of fire.  Twin with it came a shot from behind the bar.  That was Antone talking.  And now at last came the other shot from Vidal himself.

Rod Norton’s was that type of man which finds caution less to his liking than headlong action; furthermore, in the present crisis, caution had seemed the acme of foolhardiness.  There are times when true wisdom lies in taking one’s chance boldly, flying half-way to meet it.  Now, as three bullets sang by him, he gathered himself; then, before the sharp reports had died in his ears, he sprang forward, hurling himself across the room, striking with his lifted gun as he went, missing, striking again and experiencing that grinding, crunching sensation transmitted along the metal barrel as it struck a man fair upon the head.  The man went down heavily and Norton stood over him, praying that it was Vidal Nunez.

Then it was that Julius Struve, having deserted his post at the rear, smashed through a window with the muzzle of his shotgun, sending the shade flipping up, springing back from the square of faint light as he cried out sharply: 

“All right, Nort?”

“All right!” cried Norton.  “I’m against the north wall; rake the other side and the bar with your shotgun if they don’t step out.  You and Cutter together.  I’ve got Rickard and Nunez out of it.  Drop your gun, Galloway; lively, while you’ve got the chance.  Antone, Struve’s got a shotgun!”

Antone cursed, and with the snarl of his voice came the clatter of a revolver slammed down on the bar.  Galloway cursed and fired, emptying his second gun, crazed with hatred and blind anger.  Again, shot for shot Norton answered him.  And again it grew very silent in the Casa Blanca.

“Out through the window, one by one, with your hands up and your guns down,” shouted Struve; “or I start in.  Which is it, boys?”

There was a scramble to obey, the several men who had taken no part leading the way.  As they went out their forms were for a moment clearly outlined, then swallowed up in the outer darkness.  At Struve’s command they lined up against the wall, watched over by the muzzle of his shotgun.  Antone, crying out that he was coming, followed.  Elmer Page, sick and dizzy, was at Antone’s heels.

Tom Cutter had gathered up some dry grass, and with that and a chance-found bit of wood started a blaze near the second window; in its wavering, uncertain light the faces of the men stood out whitely.

“Galloway is not here yet,” he snapped.  And, lifting his voice:  “Come on, Galloway.”

A crowd had gathered in the street, asking questions that went unanswered.  Other hands added fuel to Cutter’s fire.  The increasing light at last penetrated the blackness filling the barroom.