mask fired again, viciously, and the other collapsed into a
still, awkwardly huddled heap on the floor. The revolver
dropped from his fingers and struck against Thurston's foot,
making him wince.

Thurston had never before seen death come to a man, and the very
suddenness of it unnerved him. All his faculties were numbed
before that terrible, pitiless form in the door, and the limp,
dead body at his feet in the aisle. He did not even remember
that here was the savage local color he had come far a-seeking.
He quite forgot to improve the opportunity by making mental note
of all the little, convincing details, as was his wont.

Presently he awoke to the realization of certain words spoken
insistently close beside him. He turned his eyes and saw that
the girl, her eyes staring straight before her, her slim, brown
hands uplifted, was yet commanding him imperiously, her voice
holding to that murmuring monotone more discreet than a whisper.

"The gun--drop down--and get it. He can't see to shoot for the
seat in front. Get the gun. Get the gun!" was what she was
saying.

Thurston looked at her helplessly, imploringly. In truth, he
had never fired a gun in all his peaceful life.

"The gun--get it--and shoot!" Her eyes moved quickly in a
cautious, side-long glance that commanded impatiently. Her
straight eyebrows drew together imperiously. Then, when he met
her eyes with that same helpless look, she said another word