neighbor?" suggested Yancy.

"Do you mean you won't drink with me?" roared Slosson.

"The captain's dropped out and I 'low it's about time fo' these
here festivities to come to an end. I'm thinking some of going
to bed myself," said Yancy. He kept his eyes fixed on Murrell.
He realized that if the latter could prevent it he was not to
leave the bar. Murrell stood between him and the door; more than
this, he stood between him and his rifle, which leaned against
the wall in the far corner of the room. Slosson roared out a
protest to his words. "That's all right, neighbor," retorted
Yancy over his shoulder, "but I'm going to bed." He never
shifted his glance from Murrell's face. Seowling now, the
captain's eyes blazed back their challenge as he thrust his right
hand under his coat. "Fair play--I don't know who you are, but I
know what you want!" said Yancy, the light in his frank gray eyes
deepening. Murrell laughed and took a forward step. At the same
moment Slosson snatched up a heavy club from back of the bar and
dealt Yancy a murderous blow. A single startled cry escaped the
Scratch Hitler; he struck out wildly as he lurched toward
Murrell, who drew his knife and drove it into his shoulder.

Groping wildly, Yancy reached his rifle and faced about. His
scalp lay open where Slosson's treacherous blow had fallen and
his face was covered with blood; even as his fingers stiffened
they found the hammer, but Murrell, springing forward, kicked the
gun out of his hands. Dashing the blood from his eyes, Yancy
threw himself on Murrell. Then, as they staggered to and fro,
Yancy dully bent on strangling his enemy, Slosson--whom the sight