emptied the second barrel of buckshot into the huddle and retreated
into an empty horse-stall. The smoke of many guns filled the air so
that the heads thrust at him seemed oddly detached from bodies. A
red-hot flame burned its way through his chest. He knew he was
mortally wounded.

Hal Rutherford plunged at him, screaming an oath. "We've got him,
boys."

Beaudry stumbled back against the manger, the arms of his foe clinging
to him like ropes of steel. Twice he brought down the butt of his
sawed-off gun on the black head of Rutherford. The grip of the big
hillman grew lax, and as the man collapsed, his fingers slid slackly
down the thighs of the officer.

John dropped the empty weapon and dragged out a Colt's forty-four. He
fired low and fast, not stopping to take aim. Another flame seared its
way through his body. The time left him now could be counted in
seconds.

But it was not in the man to give up. The old rebel yell of Morgan's
raiders quavered from his throat. They rushed him. With no room even
for six-gun work he turned his revolver into a club. His arm rose and
fell in the mêlée as the drive of the rustlers swept him to and fro.

So savage was the defense of their victim against the hillmen's
onslaught that he beat them off. A sudden panic seized them, and those
that could still travel fled in terror.

They left behind them four dead and two badly wounded. One would be a