“Don’t get excited, friend,” he said.  “If things are out, and you and I are caught with the aces in our sleeves, we may have to fight back to back.”  He was edging around to draw his pistol unobserved,

But Trimmer was alert.  “Stand still, there, Opal, I’ve got the drop,” he said.  “I’m lookin’ out fer number one, this morning, understand?  You ring the——­”

A sudden, loud knock at the door broke in upon his speech, and both men started in alarm.

“Opal!  Opal!” cried a muffled voice in accents of warning just outside the door, “Christler’s on your trail!  Come out!  Come out and—­huh!  Too late!  You’ll have to get out the window!”

The roar and excitement of the coming crowd, aroused to a wild indignation, broke even to the den.  An army of citizens, leading the way for Christler’s deputies, was storming McCoppet’s saloon.

He heard, and a little understood.  He knew too much to attempt to explain, to accuse even Trimmer to a mob in heat.  Nothing but flight was possible, and perhaps even that was a risk.

He started for the window.  Trimmer leaped before him.

“No you don’t!” he said.  “I told you, Opal——­”

“Take that!” the gambler cut in sharply.  His gun leaped out with flame at its end; and the roar, fire, bullet, and all seemed to bury in the lumberman’s body.  A second shot and a third did the same—­and Trimmer went down like a log.

His gun had fallen from his hand.  With all his brute vitality he crawled to take it up.  One of the bullets had pierced his heart, but yet he would not die.

McCoppet had snatched up a chair and with it he beat out the window.  Then Trimmer’s gun crashed tremendously—­and Opal sank against the sill.

He faced his man.  A ghastly pallor spread upon his countenance.  He went down slowly, like a man of melting snow, his cigar still hanging on his lip.

He saw the lumberman shiver.  But the fellow crowded his cigar stump in his mouth, with fire and all, and chewed it up as he was dying.

“Good shot,” said McCoppet faintly.  His head went forward on his breast and he crumpled on the floor.

CHAPTER XLVI

WASTED TIME

Van was conveyed to Mrs. Dick’s.  The fever attacked him in his helplessness and delirium claimed him for its own.  He glided from unconsciousness into a wandering state of mind before the hour of noon.

His wound was an ugly, fiery affair, made worse by all that he did.  For having returned from his lethargy, he promptly began to fight anew all his battles with horses, men, and love that had crossed his summer orbit.

Gettysburg, Dave, and Napoleon begged for the brunt of the battle.  They got it.  For three long days Van lay upon his bed and flung them all around the room.  He hurt them, bruised them, even called them names, but ever like three faithful dogs, whom beatings will never discourage—­the beatings at least of a master much beloved—­they returned undaunted to the fray, with affection constantly increasing.