“I wish I could tell it as quick as it happened.  But Bo Snecker, turning white as a sheet, stuck to Blome.  All the others failed him, as he had guessed they would fail.  Low curses and exclamations were uttered by men sliding and pressing back, but the principals were mute.  I was thinking hard, yet I had no time to get to Steele’s side.  I, like the rest, was held fast.  But I kept my eyes sweeping around, then back again to that center pair.

“Blome slowly rose.  I think he did it instinctively.  Because if he had expected his first movement to start the action he never would have moved.  Snecker sat partly on the rail of his chair, with both feet square on the floor, and he never twitched a muscle.  There was a striking difference in the looks of these two rustlers.  Snecker had burning holes for eyes in his white face.  At the last he was staunch, defiant, game to the core.  He didn’t think.  But Blome faced death and knew it.  It was infinitely more than the facing of foes, the taking of stock, preliminary to the even break.  Blome’s attitude was that of a trapped wolf about to start into savage action; nevertheless, equally it was the pitifully weak stand of a ruffian against ruthless and powerful law.

“The border of Pecos County could have had no greater lesson than this—­Blome face-to-face with the Ranger.  That part of the border present saw its most noted exponent of lawlessness a coward, almost powerless to go for his gun, fatally sure of his own doom.

“But that moment, seeming so long, really so short, had to end.  Blome made a spasmodic upheaval of shoulder and arm.  Snecker a second later flashed into movement.

“Steele blurred in my sight.  His action couldn’t be followed.  But I saw his gun, waving up, flame red once—­twice—­and the reports almost boomed together.

“Blome bent forward, arm down, doubled up, and fell over the table and slid to the floor.

“But Snecker’s gun cracked with Steele’s last shot.  I heard the bullet strike Steele.  It made me sick as if it had hit me.  But Steele never budged.  Snecker leaped up, screaming, his gun sputtering to the floor.  His left hand swept to his right arm, which had been shattered by Steele’s bullet.

“Blood streamed everywhere.  His screams were curses, and then ended, testifying to a rage hardly human.  Then, leaping, he went down on his knees after the gun.

“Don’t pick it up,” called Steele; his command would have checked anyone save an insane man.  For an instant it even held Snecker.  On his knees, right arm hanging limp, left extended, and face ghastly with agony and fiendish fury, he was certainly an appalling sight.

“‘Bo, you’re courtin’ death,’ called a hard voice from the crowd.

“‘Snecker, wait.  Don’t make me kill you!’ cried Steele swiftly.  ’You’re still a boy.  Surrender!  You’ll outlive your sentence many years.  I promise clemency.  Hold, you fool!’