When Barbara regained consciousness she was lying in some long, dusty grass beside the trail where she seemed to have been thrown, or where she had fallen. For she was lying on her right side, her right arm doubled under her, and she felt a pain in her shoulder which must have been where she had struck when she had fallen.

She twisted around and sat up, bewildered, almost succumbing to the hideous terror which instantly gripped her when she remembered what had happened.

Deveny’s horse stood near her, nipping the tips of the grass that grew at her feet. Beyond the animal—a little to her right, and perhaps fifty feet from her—were other horses, with riders.

As she staggered to her feet she recognized the men who had been with Deveny. They were on their horses—all facing away from her. Facing Deveny’s men were all the T Down boys—she recognized them instantly. Pistols glittered in their hands; they seemed to be in the grip of some strong passion, which wreathed their faces into grim, bitter lines.

Near the T Down men—flanking them—were other men. Among them she saw faces she knew—Colver, Strom Rogers, and others.

There must have been twenty-five or thirty men, altogether, and they were all on a little level beside the trail. It seemed to Barbara that they all appeared to have forgotten her; seemed not to know that she was in the vicinity.

She saw Deveny standing on the little level. His profile was toward her; there was a wild, savage glare in his eyes.

Not more than a dozen feet from him was Harlan.

She saw Harlan’s face from the side also. There was a grin on his lips—bitter, mirthless, terrible.

She stood for what seemed to her a long time, watching all of them; her heart throbbing with a dread heaviness that threatened to choke her; her body in a state of icy paralysis.

She thought she knew what had happened, for it seemed to her that everything in the world—all the passions and the desires of men—centered upon her. She felt that there were two factions—one headed by Deveny, and the other by Harlan, representing Haydon—and that they were about to fight for her. The T Down men seemed to be standing with Harlan—as, of course, they would, since he had sent for them to come to the Rancho Seco.

Oddly, though, they apparently seemed to pay no attention to her; not one of them looked at her.

If they were to fight it made no difference to her which faction won, for her fate would be the same, if she stayed.

She did not know what put the thought into her mind, but as she stood there watching the men she repeated mentally over and over the words: “If I stay.”

Why should she stay? She answered the question by stealing toward Deveny’s horse. When she reached the animal she paused, glancing apprehensively at the men, her breathing suspended—hoping, dreading, her nerves and muscles taut. It seemed they must see her.

Not a man moved as she climbed upon the back of the horse; it seemed to her as she urged the animal gently and slowly away from the men that they heard nothing and saw nothing but Harlan and Deveny, and that Harlan and Deveny saw nothing but each other.

She sent the horse away, walking him for a dozen yards or more, until he crossed the little level and sank into a shallow depression in the trail. Still looking back, she saw that none of the men had changed position—that they seemed to be more intent upon Harlan and Deveny. And she could hear Harlan’s voice, now, low, husky.

She urged the horse into a lope; and when she had ridden perhaps a hundred yards, the conviction that she would escape grew strong in her. Once out of the valley she would ride straight to Lamo, to ask Sheriff Gage to protect her.

She rode faster as she widened the distance that separated her from the men; and soon the horse was covering the trail rapidly; and she leaned forward in the saddle, praying that the men might not see her.

She had gone several miles when she noticed a dark object beside the trail ahead of her. She drew the horse down and approached the spot cautiously. And when she saw that the object was a man, her thoughts flew to the shot she had heard, and to Deveny’s words:

“Make sure of it.”

It was Linton, she saw, as she halted the horse near the object she had seen. He was lying on his right side, resting his weight on an elbow, as though trying to rise.

In an instant she was out of the saddle and at his side, raising his head.

He looked at her, smiled, and said weakly:

“You got away, eh? I reckon they met Harlan. I was hopin’ they would. Did they?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly. She had seen that Linton was badly wounded, and she knew that she must give up hope of getting to Lamo in order to give him the care he needed.

So without speaking further, though with an effort that required the last ounce of her strength, she lifted Linton, he helping a little, and led him toward her horse. Somehow, with Linton doing all he could, she got him into the saddle, climbed up behind him, and sent the horse toward the Rancho Seco.

Back at the little level where the men were grouped there was a tension that seemed to charge the atmosphere with tragedy. Deveny’s men sat silent in their saddles, watching their leader and Harlan with sullen, savage eyes. The T Down men, facing them, were equally sullen. Guns in hand, they alertly watched the men who were with Deveny, plainly determined that there should be no interference from them in the tragedy that seemed imminent.

Rogers and his men, and the riders who had come with Colver, were also watching the Deveny group. All of these held weapons, too; and Rogers, who had dismounted, was standing beside his horse, a rifle resting on the saddle seat, his cheek snuggling the stock, the muzzle trained on Deveny.

Harlan, Rogers, and the others, racing down the valley, had met Deveny and his men coming up. And when Deveny had recognized Harlan and the others he had quickly dismounted, bearing his unconscious burden. Because he felt that trouble would result from the meeting, Deveny had thrown Barbara from him.

He had instantly forgotten the girl. For when Harlan came up Deveny saw a gleam in his eyes that sent his brain to throbbing with those unmistakable impulses of fear which had seized him the day, in Lamo, when Harlan had faced him.

There had been a moment of silence when the two groups met; a stiffening of muscles and the heavy, strained breathing that, in men, tells of mental preparation for violence, swift and deadly.

It had been Harlan who had prevented concerted action—action that would have brought about a battle in which all would have figured. His guns came out before the thought of trouble could definitely form in the brains of the Deveny men; and he had held them—the men in the saddles, Deveny standing—until the T Down men, whom he had seen from a distance, coming toward him, could arrive.

Then, still menacing the Deveny men with weapons, he had dismounted to face Deveny—where he had been when Barbara Morgan had recovered consciousness.

And while the girl had been stealing away he had been talking to Deveny, though loud enough for all of them to hear.

There was about Harlan as this moment a threat that brought awe into the hearts of Deveny’s men—a cold, savage alertness that told them, unmistakably, that the man’s rage was at a pitch where the slightest movement by any of them would precipitate that action for which, plainly, Harlan longed.

“So you got Barbara Morgan?” he said as he stood close to Deveny. There was a taunt in his voice, and an irony that made Deveny squirm with fury.

And yet Deveny fought hard for composure. He could see in Harlan’s manner something akin to what he had seen that day, in Lamo, when Harlan had baited him. His manner was the same, yet somehow it was not the same. There was this difference:

In Lamo, Harlan had betrayed the threat of violence that Deveny had felt. But he had seemed to be composed, saturnine—willing to wait. It had seemed, then, that he wanted trouble, but he would not force it.

Now, he plainly intended to bring a clash quickly. The determination was in his eyes, in the set of his head, and in his straight, stiff lips.

He seemed to have forgotten the other men; his gaze was on Deveny with a boring intensity that sent a chill of stealthy dread over the outlaw.

Deveny had faced many men in whose hearts lurked the lust to kill; he had shot down men who had faced him with that lust in their eyes—and he knew the passion when he saw it.

He saw it now, in Harlan’s eyes—they were wanton—in them was concentrated all the hate and contempt that Harlan felt for him. But back of it all was that iron self-control that Deveny had seen in the man when he had faced him in Lamo.

Deveny had avoided Harlan since that day. He had known why—and he knew at this minute. It was because he was afraid of Harlan—he feared him as a coward fears the death that confronts him. The sensation was premonitory. Nor was it that. It had been premonitory—it was now a conviction. In the time, in Lamo, when he had faced Harlan some prescience had warned him that before him was the man whom the fates had selected to bring death to him.

He had felt it during all the days of Harlan’s presence in the section; he had felt it, and he had avoided the man. He felt it now, and his breathing grew fast and difficult—his chest laboring as he shrilled breath into his lungs.

He knew what was coming; he knew that presently Harlan’s passion would reach the point where action would be imperative; that presently would come that slow, halting movement of Harlan’s hands toward his gun—which gun? He would witness, with himself as one of the chief actors, the hesitating movement which had brought fame of a dread kind to the man who stood before him.

Could he beat Harlan to the “draw?” Could he? That question was dinned into his ears and into his consciousness by his brain and his heart. He heard nothing of what was going on around him; he did not hear Harlan’s voice, though he saw the man’s lips moving. He did not see any of the men who stood near, nor did he see his men, sitting in their saddles, watching him.

He saw nothing but Harlan; felt nothing except the blood that throbbed in his temples; was conscious of nothing but the question that filled his heart, his brain, and his soul—could he beat Harlan to the “draw?”

Presently, when he saw, with astonishment, that Harlan was slowly backing away from him, crouching a little, he divined vaguely that the moment had come. And now, curiously, he heard Harlan’s voice—low, distinct, even. What an iceberg the man was!

“Haydon’s dead,” he heard Harlan saying—and he stared at Harlan, finding it difficult to comprehend. “Lafe Woodward killed him,” Harlan went on “killed him at the Cache. Now get this straight—all of you.” It seemed strange to Deveny that Harlan seemed to be speaking to the men, while watching him, only.

“Woodward was killed, too. His real name was Bill Morgan. He was Lane Morgan’s son. Bill Morgan was sent here by the governor, to get evidence against Haydon. He got it. I took it from his pockets when I planted him—an’ it’s goin’ straight to the governor.

“You guys are through here—” again he seemed to speak to all the men. “Morgan told me he had some men with the Cache gang. They’re to ride out an’ join my boys—the T Down outfit.”

Deveny was conscious that several men detached themselves from the group of riders he had brought with him, and rode to where the T Down men were standing. Then Harlan spoke again:

“Now, she shapes up like this. If there’s any of the Star gang wantin’ to go straight, they can throw in with the T Down boys, too. If there’s some that figure on pullin’ their freight out of the valley—an’ stayin’ out—they can hit the breeze right now—drivin’ that Star herd to Willow’s Wells, sellin’ them, an’ dividin’ the money. Whoever is takin’ up that proposition is startin’ right now!”

About half the Star men began to move; heading up the valley. There was a momentary pause, and then those that were left of Deveny’s men moved uneasily.

“Does that go for us guys too?”

“It’s wide open,” announced Harlan, cold humor seeming to creep into his voice. “It’s your chance to get out of this deal without gettin’ what’s comin’ to you.”

There was a rush and clatter as Deveny’s men joined the men of the Star, who were already on the move. And then there followed a long silence, during which Deveny glanced up the valley and saw the men riding away.

He turned again, to face Harlan, with the consciousness that he stood alone. The T Down men, half of the Star men, and a large proportion of the Cache men were standing with Harlan. Deveny saw Colver and Rogers among those who had aligned themselves with Harlan.

No invitation to withdraw had been extended to Deveny. The knowledge strengthened his conviction that Harlan intended to kill him. And yet, now, facing Harlan, he knew that he would never take up the slender thread of chance that was offered him—to draw his gun, kill Harlan and resume his authority over the men who were left.

The possibility, dangling at the other end of the slender thread of chance, did not allure him. For he knew he could not draw the pistol at his hip with Harlan’s gaze upon him—that would be suicide.

“Deveny!”

Harlan’s voice, snapping with menace roused him, straightened him, brought an ashen pallor to his face.

“It’s your turn, Deveny. You stay here. Flash your gun!”

Here it was—the dreaded moment. Deveny saw the men around him stiffen rigidly; he heard their slow-drawn breaths. The thought to draw his gun was strong in him, and he fought hard to force his recreant muscles to do the will of his mind. For an instant he stood, his right hand poised above the holster of his pistol, the elbow crooked, ready to straighten.

And then, with the steady, coldly flaming eyes of Harlan upon him, Harlan’s right hand extended slightly, the fingers spread a little as though he was about to offer his hand to the other. Deveny became aware that he was doing an astonishing thing. He was raising his right hand!

Already it was at his shoulder. And as he marveled, it went higher, finally coming to a level with his head, where it stopped. He had publicly advertised his refusal to settle his differences with Harlan with the pistol.

“Yellow!”

It was Harlan’s voice. “You won’t fight an’ you won’t run. Well, we’ll keep you, savin’ you for the governor. I reckon he’ll be glad to see you.”

Harlan turned, sheathing his pistol, and began to walk toward his horse, his back toward Deveny.

Then Deveny acted. His eyes flaming hate, he drew his pistol with a flashing movement, his face hideous with malignant passion.

He sent one bullet into Harlan’s back and two more as Harlan tumbled forward, sinking to his knees from the shock. But Deveny’s two last bullets went wild, tearing up the grass of the level as the gun loosened in his hand.

For Rogers’ rifle was spitting fire and smoke with venomous rapidity, and Deveny was sinking, his knees doubling under him, his body shuddering with the impact of each bullet.