She left them, reluctantly. The men took a side street that led toward Benton’s stable. Dutch was anxious to be gone from Carson. The preacher’s words had filled him with foreboding. He would not feel easy until the dust of the capital had long been shaken from his horse’s hoofs. His surly voice took on a whine. It was his way of attempting to propitiate fate. “I got a bad name, Parson, an’ so folks don’t feel right to me. Lemme say that there’s a heap of worse men than Sam Dutch. I’ve shot men sure enough, but I ain’t ever shot one that wasn’t better dead. Most folks don’ know that. They think I go round killin’ to see ’em kick. Well, I don’t. Live an’ let live would be my motto, if gunmen would only lemme alone. But you know yorese’f how it is, Parson. They git to thinkin’ if they can bump off Sam Dutch they’ll be chief. So they come lookin’ for trouble, an’ I got to accommodate ’em.” A man came down the street walking as though he loved it. His stride rang out sharp in the still night. He was singing softly the words of a trail song: “Last night as I lay on the prairie, And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy Would drift to that sweet by and by. Roll on, roll on, Roll on, little dogies, roll——” Marston’s heart lost a beat. He felt rather than saw the figure of the man at his side grow tense as it crouched. Steel flashed in the moonlight. The preacher struck at a hair-matted wrist as the gun roared. The singer stopped in his tracks. With incredible quickness he dragged out a revolver and fired. The chaplain thrust Dutch from him and stepped back into the road out of the direct line of fire. The boom of the forty-fives seemed continuous while the short sharp flashes stabbed the darkness. A man groaned and clutched at his breast. He sank down, still firing. On his knees, supporting the weight of his body with the palm of his hand thrust against the ground, Dutch emptied his revolver, ferocious as a wounded grizzly. From his throat there issued a sound that was half a sob and half a snarl of rage. The thunder of the guns died. The singer moved forward, warily, his gaze fastened on the huge huddled figure slowly sinking lower. One glance had been enough to tell him that Marston was not an enemy. Therefore he concentrated his attention on the centre of danger. Marston ran to the fallen man and knelt down beside him. He tore open the coat and vest. A single look was sufficient. Three bullets had torn into the great barrel-like trunk of his body. One had pierced the right lung. A second had struck just below the heart. The third had raked from right to left through the stomach. “Take my boots off,” gasped the desperado. The chaplain knew that Dutch was aware he had been mortally wounded. This request showed it. The Western gunman wanted always to be without his boots on when he died.