Pete saw that Gary was working himself up to the pitch when he would kill.  And Pete knew that he had but one chance in a thousand of breaking even with the killer.  He would not have time to draw—­but Montoya had taught him the trick of shooting through the open holster . . .  Cotton heard Pete’s hand strike the butt of his gun as the holster tilted up.  Pete fired twice.  Staring as though hypnotized, Gary clutched at his shirt over his chest with his free hand.  He gave at the knees and his body wilted and settled down—­even as he threw a desperate shot at Pete in a last venomous effort to kill.

[Illustration:  Cotton heard Pete’s hand strike the butt of his gun as the holster tilted up.]

“You seen it was an even break,” said Pete, turning to Cotton, who immediately sank to his knees and implored Pete not to kill him.

“But I reckon you’d lie, anyhow,” continued Pete, paying no attention to the other’s mouthings.  “Hunt your cayuse—­and git a-movin’.”

Cotton understood that.  Glancing over his shoulder at Gary he turned and ran toward the timber.  Pete stepped to the crumpled figure and gazed at the bubbling hole in the chest.  Then he stepped hack and mechanically bolstered his gun which he had pulled as he spoke to Cotton.  “They’ll git me for this,” he whispered to himself.  “It was an even break—­but they’ll git me.”  Pete fought back his fear with a peculiar pride—­the pride that scorned to appear frightened before his chum, Andy White.  The quarrel had occurred so unexpectedly and terminated so suddenly, that Pete could not yet realize the full extent of the tragedy.  While quite conscious of what he was doing and intended to do, he felt as though he were walking in a horrible dream from which he would never awaken.  His instincts were as keen as ever—­for he was already planning his next move—­but his sensibilities had suffered a blunt shock—­were numb to all external influence.  He knew that the sun was shining, yet he did not feel its warmth.  He was walking toward the cabin, and toward Andy.  He stumbled as he walked, taking no account of the irregularities of the ground.  He could hardly believe that he had killed Gary.  To convince himself against his own will he mechanically drew his gun and glanced at the two empty shells.  “Three and two is five,” he muttered.  “I shot twict.”  He did not realize that Gary had shot at him—­that a shred of his flannel shirt was dangling from his sleeve where Gary’s bullet had cut it.  “Wonder if Andy heard?” he kept asking himself.  “I got to tell Andy.”

Almost before he realized it he was standing under the cedar and Andy was speaking.  “Thought I heard some one shoot, over toward the woods.”

As Pete did not answer, Andy thought that the horse had got away from him.  “Did you get him?” he queried.

Pete nodded dully.  “I got him.  He’s over there—­in the brush.”

“Why didn’t you fetch him in?  Did he get the best of you?  You look like he give you a tussle.”