He had not fired nor had Howard.  Ed True, however, lacked the cool nerve and emptied his revolver.  Monte cursed him for a fool.

‘You couldn’t hit a barn that far off in this light,’ he shouted.  ‘Take your time, can’t you?’

Howard’s lips tightened.  That was Monte Devine for you.  Steady and cool as a rock.

‘We’ve got the best of you, Al,’ called Monte warningly.  ’Better crawl out while you got the chance.’

‘Go to hell!’ Howard told him succinctly.  And knowing that the man had been right when he had said you couldn’t hit a barn at that distance and in that light, he came forward suddenly.  For in a little the burning grass would be behind him and outlined against it the target of his body would be a mark for anybody to hit.

Suddenly, having reloaded, True fired again.  But he was not so hurried now.  He fired once and waited.  This time the bullet had not flown so far afield as the first shots; Howard heard its shrill cleaving of the air.  He saw that Monte was moving to one side.  Again he understood the man’s intention.  Monte planned to put him between two fires.  Howard jerked up his own gun.

The two explosions came simultaneously, his and Monte’s.  There was a brief silence.  Plainly no bullet had yet found its mark.  True fired again.  His bullet whined by and Howard realized that the man was coming closer every time.  He turned a little and, ‘taking his time,’ as Monte was doing, answered True’s fire.  There was a little squeal of pain from True, a grunt of satisfaction from Howard, a second shot from Monte.  Howard saw that True had spun about and fallen.  He saw, further, that Monte had come a step nearer and had stopped.  In a little Bettins would be to reckon with.  It was still close enough for a chance hit, too far for absolute accuracy.  Walking slowly, realizing that he had but four shots left and that those gone he would never be given time to reload, Howard came half a dozen paces toward Monte before he stopped.  He heard True’s groaning curse; a spat of flame from where the man lay showed him that he was still to be counted on.  But his shooting would be apt to be wild and he must be forgotten until Devine was dealt with.

He was near enough to make out the gesture as Monte raised his arm.  And he was ready.  Howard fired first; he saw the flare and heard the report of Monte’s gun and knew that he had missed.  But Monte had not missed.  There was a searing pain across Howard’s outer left arm, near the shoulder.  The pain came and was gone, like the flash of the gun; remained only a mounting rage in Howard’s brain.  Three shots left and three men still to fight.  A shot for each man and none to waste, or the tale would be told for Alan Howard.  And there would be occasion for Jim Courtot’s jeering laugh tomorrow.