“At the end of the trail a man who had killed fifty horses wanted to buy, but we looked at him and at our own,—­mountain cayuses from eastern Oregon.  Five thousand he offered, and we were broke, but we remembered the poison grass of the Summit and the passage in the Rocks, and the man who was my brother spoke no word, but divided the cayuses into two bunches,—­his in the one and mine in the other,—­and he looked at me and we understood each other.  So he drove mine to the one side and I drove his to the other, and we took with us our rifles and shot them to the last one, while the man who had killed fifty horses cursed us till his throat cracked.  But that man, with whom I welded blood-brothership on the Dead Horse Trail—­”

“Why, that man was John Randolph,” Fortune, sneering the while, completed the climax for him.

Uri nodded, and said, “I am glad you understand.”

“I am ready,” Fortune answered, the old weary bitterness strong in his face again.  “Go ahead, but hurry.”

Uri Bram rose to his feet.

“I have had faith in God all the days of my life.  I believe He loves justice.  I believe He is looking down upon us now, choosing between us.  I believe He waits to work His will through my own right arm.  And such is my belief, that we will take equal chance and let Him speak His own judgment.”

Fortune’s heart leaped at the words.  He did not know much concerning Uri’s God, but he believed in Chance, and Chance had been coming his way ever since the night he ran down the beach and across the snow.  “But there is only one gun,” he objected.

“We will fire turn about,” Uri replied, at the same time throwing out the cylinder of the other man’s Colt and examining it.

“And the cards to decide!  One hand of seven up!”

Fortune’s blood was warming to the game, and he drew the deck from his pocket as Uri nodded.  Surely Chance would not desert him now!  He thought of the returning sun as he cut for deal, and he thrilled when he found the deal was his.  He shuffled and dealt, and Uri cut him the Jack of Spades.  They laid down their hands.  Uri’s was bare of trumps, while he held ace, deuce.  The outside seemed very near to him as they stepped off the fifty paces.

“If God withholds His hand and you drop me, the dogs and outfit are yours.  You’ll find a bill of sale, already made out, in my pocket,” Uri explained, facing the path of the bullet, straight and broad-breasted.

Fortune shook a vision of the sun shining on the ocean from his eyes and took aim.  He was very careful.  Twice he lowered as the spring breeze shook the pines.  But the third time he dropped on one knee, gripped the revolver steadily in both hands, and fired.  Uri whirled half about, threw up his arms, swayed wildly for a moment, and sank into the snow.  But Fortune knew he had fired too far to one side, else the man would not have whirled.