In that last second or two Cassidy had foreseen the impending thing, and with the movement of the other’s hand he cried out: 

“Stop!  For God’s sake stop—­or I shall fire!”

Even into the soul of Peter there came in that moment the electrical thrill of something terrific about to happen, of impending death, of tragedy close at hand.  Once, a long time ago, Peter had felt another moment such as this—­when he had buried his fangs in Jed Hawkins’ leg to save Nada.

In that fraction of a second which carried Peter through space, Corporal Cassidy’s finger was pressing the trigger of his automatic, for McKay’s gun was half out of its holster.  He was aiming at the other’s shoulder, somewhere not to kill.

The shock of Peter’s assault came simultaneously with the explosion of his gun, and McKay heard the hissing spit of the bullet past his ear.  His arm darted out.  And as Peter buried his teeth deeper into Cassidy’s leg, he heard a second shot, and knew that it came from his master.  There was no third.  Cassidy drooped, and something like a little laugh came from him—­only it was not a laugh.  His body sagged, and then crumpled down, so that the weight of him fell upon Peter.

For many seconds after that Jolly Roger stood with his gun in his hand, not a muscle of his body moving, and with something like stupor in his staring eyes.  Peter struggled out from under Cassidy, and looked inquisitively from his master to the man who lay sprawled out like a great spider upon the sand.  It was then that life seemed to come back into Jolly Roger’s body.  His gun fell, as if it was the last thing in the world to count for anything now, and with a choking cry he ran to Cassidy and dropped upon his knees beside him.

“Cassidy—­Cassidy—­” he cried.  “Good God, I didn’t mean to do it!  Cassidy, old pal—­”

The agony in his voice stilled the growl in Peter’s throat.  McKay saw nothing for a space, as he raised Cassidy’s head and shoulders, and brushed back the mop of red hair.  Everything was a blur before his eyes.  He had killed Cassidy.  He knew it.  He had shot to kill, and not once in a hundred times did he miss his mark.  At last he was what the law wanted him to be—­a murderer.  And his victim was Cassidy—­the man who had played him fairly and squarely from beginning to end, the man who had never taken a mean advantage of him, and who had died there in the white sand because he had not shot to kill.  With sobbing breath he cried out his grief, and then, looking down, he saw the miracle in Cassidy’s face.  The Irishman’s eyes were wide open, and there was pain, and also a grin, about his mouth.

“I’m glad you’re sorry,” he said.  “I’d hate to have a bad opinion of you, McKay.  But—­you’re a rotten shot!”

His body sagged heavily, and the grin slowly left his lips, and a moan came from between them.  He struggled and spoke.

“It may be—­you’ll want help, McKay.  If you do—­there’s a cabin half a mile up the creek.  Saw the smoke—­heard axe—­I don’t blame you.  You’re a good sport—­pretty quick—­but—­rotten shot!  Oh, Lord—­such—­rotten—­shot—­”