Then Hardy Atkins blew out the lamp, and the riot went on in the dark. Bowles was only one of ten frantic punchers who struggled to get out the door; Brigham Clark was one of as many more who burrowed beneath the beds; and when Hardy Atkins lit the lamp and threw the dim light on Happy Jack's wan face he was just in time to save his audience. True, the older punchers had been in fake fights before; but they had been in real ones, too--where the bullets flew wide of the mark--and this had seemed mighty real. In fact, if one were to criticize such a finished production, it was a little too real for the purpose, for the conduct of Bowles was in no wise different from the rest. There had been a little too much secrecy and not quite enough team-work about the play, but Poker-face Bill was still at his post and the victim was caught in the crowd. "Oh, my Gawd!" moaned Hardy Atkins, kneeling down and tearing aside Jack's coat. "Are you hurt bad, Jack?" The red splotch on his shirt gave the answer, and the room was silent as death. Then Poker Bill began to whisper and push; delighted grins were passed and stilled; and, moving in a mass, with Bowles up near the front, the crowd closed in on the corpse. "He's dead!" rumbled Buck Buchanan, making a fierce gesture with his pistol. "I don't make no mistakes. You boys saw him cheat," he went on, approaching nearer to the crowd. "And he slapped me first! You saw that, didn't you, Bowles?" "Oh, hush up!" cried Hardy Atkins, tragically shaking his fallen friend; and then as he worked up to the big scene where Happy Jack was to come to life and run amuck after Bowles, the door was kicked open and gloomy Gus strode in. "What's the matter with you fellers?" he demanded, his voice trembling with indignation at the thought of his broken sleep, and then, at sight of Jack, he stopped. "Jack's dead," said Hardy Atkins, trying hard to give Gus the wink; but the cook was staring at the corpse. Perhaps, being roused from a sound sleep, his senses were not quite as acute as usual; perhaps the play-acting was too good; be that as it may, his rage was changed to pity, and, he took the center of the stage. "Ah, poor Jack!" he quavered, going closer and gazing down upon him. "Shot through the heart. He's dead, boys; they's no use workin' on 'im--I've seen many a man like that before." "Well, let's try, anyway!" urged Atkins, in a desperate endeavor to get rid of him. "Go git some water, Gus! Haven't you got any whisky?" "Oh, he's dead," mourned the cook; "they's no use troublin' him--it's all over with poor old Jack. You'll never hear _him_ laugh no more." A faint twitch came over the set features of the corpse at this, and Hardy Atkins leaped desperately in to shield his face.