“But Snecker was not to be denied the last game move.  He scrabbled for his gun.  Just then something, a breathtaking intuition—­I’ll never know what—­made me turn my head.  I saw the bartender deliberately aim a huge gun at Steele.  If he had not been so slow, I would have been too late.  I whirled and shot.  Talk about nick of time!  Blandy pulled trigger just as my bullet smashed into his head.

“He dropped dead behind the bar and his gun dropped in front.  But he had hit Steele.

“The Ranger staggered, almost fell.  I thought he was done, and, yelling, I sped to him.

“But he righted himself.  Then I wheeled again.  Someone in the crowd killed Bo Snecker as he wobbled up with his gun.  That was the signal for a wild run for outdoors, for cover.  I heard the crack of guns and whistle of lead.  I shoved Steele back of the bar, falling over Blandy as I did so.

“When I got up Steele was leaning over the bar with a gun in each hand.  There was a hot fight then for a minute or so, but I didn’t fire a shot.  Morton and his crowd were busy.  Men ran everywhere, shooting, ducking, cursing.  The room got blue with smoke till you couldn’t see, and then the fight changed to the street.

“Steele and I ran out.  There was shooting everywhere.  Morton’s crowd appeared to be in pursuit of rustlers in all directions.  I ran with Steele, and did not observe his condition until suddenly he fell right down in the street.  Then he looked so white and so bloody I thought he’d stopped another bullet and—­”

Here Miss Sampson’s agitation made it necessary for me to halt my story, and I hoped she had heard enough.  But she was not sick, as Sally appeared to me; she simply had been overcome by emotion.  And presently, with a blaze in her eyes that showed how her soul was aflame with righteous wrath at these rustlers and ruffians, and how, whether she knew it or not, the woman in her loved a fight, she bade me go on.  So I persevered, and, with poor little Sally sagging against me, I went on with the details of that fight.

I told how Steele rebounded from his weakness and could no more have been stopped than an avalanche.  For all I saw, he did not use his guns again.  Here, there, everywhere, as Morton and his squad cornered a rustler, Steele would go in, ordering surrender, promising protection.  He seemed to have no thoughts of bullets.  I could not hold him back, and it was hard to keep pace with him.  How many times he was shot at I had no idea, but it was many.  He dragged forth this and that rustler, and turned them all over to Morton to be guarded.  More than once he protected a craven rustler from the summary dealing Morton wanted to see in order.

I told Miss Sampson particularly how Steele appeared to me, what his effect was on these men, how toward the end of the fight rustlers were appealing to him to save them from these new-born vigilantes.  I believed I drew a picture of the Ranger that would live forever in her heart of hearts.  If she were a hero-worshiper she would have her fill.