The pursuers had apparently realized that it was useless to chase.
Another gust of revolver shots barked from the turning of the street, and
among them a different and more sinister sound like the striking of two
great hammers face on face, so that there was a cold ring of metal after
the explosion--at least one man had brought a rifle to bear. Now, as the
wild rider darted past the hotel, his hat was jerked from his head by an
invisible hand. He whirled again in the saddle and his guns raised. As he
turned, Elizabeth Cornish saw something glint across the street. It was
the gleam of light on the barrel of a rifle that was thrust out through
the window of the store.

That long line of light wobbled, steadied, and fire jetted from the mouth
of the gun. The black-haired rider spilled sidewise out of the saddle;
his feet came clear of the stirrups, and his right leg caught on the
cantle. He was flung rolling in the dust, his arms flying weirdly. The
rifle disappeared from the window and a boy's set face looked out. But
before the limp body of the fugitive had stopped rolling, Elizabeth
Cornish dropped into a chair, sick of face. Her brother turned his back
on the mob that closed over the dead man and looked at Elizabeth in
alarm.

It was not the first time he had seen the result of a gunplay, and for
that matter it was not the first time for Elizabeth. Her emotion upset
him more than the roar of a hundred guns. He managed to bring her a glass
of water, but she brushed it away so that half of the contents spilled on
the red carpet of the room.

"He isn't dead, Vance. He isn't dead!" she kept saying.