"Pull your other gun--be ready," said he, swiftly. "But don't you
shoot once till I go down! ... Then do your best. ... Save the last
bullet for Joan--in case--"
"I promise," replied Cleve, steadily.
Then Kells drew a knife from a sheath at his belt. It had a long,
bright blade. Joan had seen him use it many a time round the camp-
fire. He slipped the blade up his sleeve, retaining the haft of the
knife in his hand. He did not speak another word. Nor did he glance
at Joan again. She had felt his gaze while she had embraced him, as
she raised her lips. That look had been his last. Then he went out.
Jim knelt beside the door, peering between post and curtain.
Joan staggered to the chink between the logs. She would see that
fight if it froze her blood--the very marrow of her bones.
The gamblers were intent upon their game. Not a dark face looked up
as Kells sauntered toward the table. Gulden sat with his back to the
door. There was a shaft of sunlight streaming in, and Kells blocked
it, sending a shadow over the bent heads of the gamesters. How
significant that shadow--a blackness barring gold! Still no one paid
any attention to Kells.
He stepped closer. Suddenly he leaped into swift and terrible
violence. Then with a lunge he drove the knife into Gulden's burly
neck.
Up heaved the giant, his mighty force overturning table and benches
and men. An awful boom, strangely distorted and split, burst from
him.
Then Kells blocked the door with a gun in each hand, but only the
one in his right hand spurted white and red. Instantly there
followed a mad scramble--hoarse yells, over which that awful roar of
Gulden's predominated--and the bang of guns. Clouds of white smoke
veiled the scene, and with every shot the veil grew denser. Red
flashes burst from the ground where men were down, and from each
side of Kells. His form seemed less instinct with force; it had
shortened; he was sagging. But at intervals the red spurt and report
of his gun showed he was fighting. Then a volley from one side made
him stagger against the door. The clear spang of a Winchester spoke
above the heavy boom of the guns.
Joan's eyesight recovered from its blur or else the haze of smoke
drifted, for she saw better. Gulden's actions fascinated her,
horrified her. He had evidently gone crazy. He groped about the
room, through the smoke, to and fro before the fighting, yelling
bandits, grasping with huge hands for something. His sense of
direction, his equilibrium, had become affected. His awful roar
still sounded above the din, but it was weakening. His giant's
strength was weakening. His legs bent and buckled under him. All at
once he whipped out his two big guns and began to fire as he
staggered--at random. He killed the wounded Blicky. In the melee he
ran against Jesse Smith and thrust both guns at him. Jesse saw the
peril and with a shriek he fired point-blank at Gulden. Then as
Gulden pulled triggers both men fell. But Gulden rose, bloody-
browed, bawling, still a terrible engine of destruction. He seemed
to glare in one direction and shoot in another. He pointed the guns
and apparently pulled the triggers long after the shots had all been
fired.