What had been the old man's intention when he came across the room to pick up the towel, whether to provoke the great ruffian to some further insult upon his humble head and take the vengeance which the weak sometimes exact upon the strong, Barrett never knew. But now, as the half-breed's arm swung around to bring his gun to bear, Alvino struck him in the back with a butcher knife which he had up to that moment concealed about him.
The long blade, driven by the righteous fury of the old man's avenging arm, struck entirely through the half-breed's deep chest. As he stood there, his eyes grown great in terrible understanding of what had overtaken him, Barrett saw the point of the knife protruding. It must have cleaved his heart.
The shot that would have found lodgment in Barrett's body with a foot further swing of the weapon, broke the sugar bowl in the middle of the table as the half-breed's finger pressed the trigger when death ripped out his foul soul by the roots.
"Cuidado, keed!"
Alvino shouted his warning, at the same time motioning Barrett to the door.
Before Barrett could jump for it, the fallen ruffian's body barring his way, Findlay sprang up, cutting off his retreat, slinging out his gun as he leaped. Barrett stood for a moment, frantic as some wild thing cornered beyond escape.
There was a window behind the two men facing him across the table. But they were on their feet, guns out, looking to Findlay as if to ask him whose lead it was
