yon, Alma, like you and that tar-heeled Barrett think. I'll put you right. It was"
A hand fell sharply on Findlay's shoulder. He started, wheeling like a hawk on the wing. Barrett caught his pistol-arm as it swung round, holding the weapon pointed to the floor.
"Drop it, Findlay!"
"Drop it!" said Fred Grubb, pushing his shotgun against the rustler's ribs.
"Shoot! By God! I'll never swing!" Findlay defied them, struggling with Barrett to free his hand.
"There's nobody else; it's the showdown between you and me, Findlay. Outside!"
"Outside!" Fred Grubb echoed, reaching to draw Findlay's other pistol from the holster.
Nearing sank slowly back to his pillow, a relief in his face as in that of a man whose pardon comes as he stands under the gallows tree.
Barrett took charge of the rustler's guns. Findlay was reluctant to proceed toward the front door, evidently distrustful of Barrett's word.
"Go on!" Barrett ordered. "You'll get a man's chance—more than you gave me, more than you ought to have, around here bluffing a dying man!"
Findlay hesitated no longer. With the muzzle of Grubb's gun in his back he walked beside Barrett to the door. There Barrett passed out ahead of him, going on to the gate.
Findlay's horse stood in the shade of the cedar hedge, for the day was hot and the animal was weary and Worn, sweat-caked and dust-coated from its long flight.
