Searle’s rejoicing endured but the briefest span.  His motor had begun again to splutter, in mechanical death.  Then, with a sudden memory, sweat broke out on Bostwick’s face.  His gasolene was gone!  He had thoroughly intended refilling his tank, having barely had a sufficient supply to run him from the claim to camp; and this had been neglected.

His car bumped slowly for a score of yards, then died by the side of the road.  He leaped out madly, to assure himself the tank was really dry.  He cursed, he raved.  It seemed absurd for this big, hot creature to be dead.  And meantime, like a whirlwind coming on, Van Buren was crashing down upon him.

“By God!” he cried, “I’ll fix you for this!” and a wild thought flashed to his mind—­a thought of taking Van Buren’s car and fleeing as before.

He leaped in the tonneau and caught up a heavy revolver, stored beneath the seat.  He glanced at the cylinder.  Four of the cartridges only were unused.  He remained inside the “fort” of the car, with the weapon cocked and lowered out of sight.

Charging down like a meteor, melting its very course, Van and the red car came by leaps and plunges.  He was shutting off the power gradually, but still rushing up with frightening speed, when Bostwick raised his gun and fired.

The bullet went wide, and Van came on.  Bostwick steadied and fired again.  There was no such thing as halting the demon in the car.  But the target’s size was rapidly increasing!  Nevertheless, the third shot missed, like the others.  Would the madman never halt?

Bostwick dropped a knee to the floor, steadied the barrel on the cushion, lined up the sights, and pulled the trigger.

With the roar of the weapon Van abruptly drooped.  The bullet had pierced his shoulder.  And he still came on.  His face had suddenly paled; his lips had hardened in a manner new to his face.  He halted the car, aware that his foe had exhausted his ammunition, since no more shots were fired.

His own big gun he drew deliberately.  To sustain himself, through the shock of his wound, was draining the utmost of his nerve.  He was hardly ten feet away from the man who stood there, a captive in his car.

“Well, Searle,” he said, “you’re a better shot than I thought—­and a better driver.  In fact you drive so almighty well I am going to let you drive me back to camp.”  He arose from his seat.  He was bleeding.  His left arm was all but useless.  “Come down,” he added.  “Come down and take my seat.  And don’t make the slightest error in etiquette, Searle, or I’ll see if a forty-some-odd ball will bounce when it lands on your skull.”

Bostwick had expected to be shot on the spot.  No cornered rat could have been more abjectly afraid.  His nerve had oozed away the more for the grimness of the man who stood before him—­a man with such a wound as that who was still the master of his forces!