The unexpected appearance of Shorty startled Krell and Selden.  Surprise showed in their faces as they paused for an infinitesimal space and looked at him.

And then their guns roared.

Shorty, however, had anticipated them.  His guns went off simultaneously, slightly in advance of theirs, belching fire and smoke in a continuous stream.

Shorty did not seem to be hit by the bullets from the guns of the outlaws; he seemed to pay no attention to them whatever.

But the outlaws ceased shooting.  Krell staggered, his guns dropped from his hands, and he stood, for an instant, looking foolishly at Shorty, his face becoming ashen.  Then, without uttering a word, he lunged gently forward, his legs doubling at the knees, and sank into the dust in a huddled heap.

Selden had been hit hard, too.  The shock of Shorty’s first bullet striking him had turned him partially around, so that his left side was toward Shorty.  He had lurched forward a little; and was turning, trying to use the gun in his left hand, when another bullet struck him.  He grunted, stood slowly erect, and then fell backward stiffly.

Shorty ran to him and to Krell, scanning their faces with savage intentness.  When he saw that neither of them would bother him again, he leaped around the corner of the cabin and cautiously peered into the doorway.  He saw Antrim stretched out on the floor of the cabin, face down and motionless.  He stepped into the cabin, turned the outlaw over, grinned saturninely, and then went out to where Lawler stood.  His eyes were aglow with concern.

When he reached the corner he saw Lawler bending over, picking up the pistol that had dropped from his hand a few seconds before.  Lawler’s face was pale, but he grinned broadly at Shorty as the latter came up to him.

“I saw what was happening but I couldn’t throw in with you.  I reckon Antrim hit me mighty hard.  In my right shoulder.  I was trying to change my gun to the other hand, when I dropped it.  I didn’t seem to be able to get it again—­just then.”  He grinned.  “Lucky you came, Shorty,” he added jocosely.

Shorty’s lips grimmed.  “I reckon it’s lucky I’m here right now!” he said shortly.  “You’re hit bad, Lawler!”

He led Lawler into the cabin, where he tore away the latter’s shirt and exposed the wound—­high up on the shoulder.

After a swift examination, Shorty exclaimed with relief.

“It ain’t so bad, after all.  She bored through that big muscle.  Must have struck like a batterin’ ram.  No wonder you was weak an’ dizzy for a minute or so.  There’s a hole big enough to stick your hand through.  But she ain’t dangerous, Boss!”

Shorty had not been touched by the bullets the outlaws had sent at him.  He was energy, personified.  He got water, bathed the wound in Lawler’s shoulder; bandaged it, and at last grinned widely as Lawler got up, saying he felt better.