crawl out on the other side. Then Conniston saw what the something was
in Brayley's hand.

"Shoot, you dirty coward!" he yelled, as he swung his arm out toward
the big six-shooter.

For one moment Brayley seemed to hesitate. And then as the two men
came together the barrel of the gun rose and fell swiftly, striking
Conniston full upon the forehead. His arms dropped like lead; the
dizzy blackness came back upon him, growing blacker, blacker; and he
fell silently, unconsciously.

It was very quiet in the bunk-house when he opened his eyes. A sudden
pain through the temples, a rising nausea, blackness and dizziness
again, made him close them, frowning. He knew that he was lying in his
bunk and that he was very weak. There was a cold, wet towel tied tight
about his forehead.

The table had been cleared away, and the cook was finishing his
dish-washing by the stove. A lantern swinging from the beam which ran
across the middle of the room showed him that all the men were in
their bunks with the exception of two who were playing cribbage at the
table. They were Lonesome Pete and Rawhide Jones. When they saw him
leaning out from his bunk Lonesome Pete put down his cards and came to
him.

"How're they comin', stranger?" he asked, with no great expression in
either eyes or voice.

"Where's Brayley?" demanded Conniston, quickly.