The fact of opposition brought back to Cahill all of his great
strength.

"No, you don't!" Ranson muttered. "Think of your daughter, man. Drop
it!"

"I shall do it," Cahill panted. "I am thinking of my daughter. It's
the only way out. Take your hands off me--I shall!"

With his knuckles Ranson bored cruelly into the wounded hand, and it
opened and the gun dropped from it; but as it did so it went off with
a report that rang through the building. There was an instant rush of
feet upon the steps of the veranda, and at the sound the two men
sprang apart, eyeing each other sheepishly like two discovered
truants. When Sergeant Clancey and the guard pushed through the door
Ranson stood facing it, spinning the revolver in cowboy fashion
around his fourth finger. He addressed the sergeant in a tone of
bitter irony.

"Oh, you've come at last," he demanded. "Are you deaf? Why didn't you
come when I called?" His tone showed he considered he had just cause
for annoyance.

"The gun brought me, I--" began Clancey.

"Yes, I hoped it might. That's why I fired it," snapped Ranson. "I
want two whiskey-and-sodas. Quick now!"

"Two--" gasped Clancey.