Father Marston eased his head while Hugh McClintock removed the boots. A gargoyle grin was on the face of the bad man. He meant to “die game,” after the manner of his kind. “You sure rang a bull’s eye, Parson, when you pulled them Bible texts on me. At that, maybe I’d ’a’ fooled you if you hadn’t spoiled my aim that first shot.” “You realize——” “—that I got more’n I can carry? Sure do.” Marston forgot that this man was the worst desperado Nevada had ever known. He remembered only that the soul of Sam Dutch, a poor erring human being, was about to meet its Maker. “His mercy endureth for ever. Repent. Repent and be saved,” he exhorted earnestly. “Too late, Parson,” Dutch answered feebly. “I’m a—dyed-in-the-wool sinner—an’ I’m—hittin’ the trail—for hell.” “It’s never too late. ‘While the light holds out to burn, the vilest sinner may return.’ That’s you, Sam.” “That’s sure me, but—I don’t reckon—I’ll——” His body stiffened suddenly, then relaxed limply. He was dead. The two men rose and looked at each other. Hugh spoke first. “I had to do it, Father. It was Dutch or me.” “Yes, you had to do it.” “He didn’t give me any choice. Came a-shootin’ before I knew even who he was.” “I saw what he was doing just in time to hit his arm.” “I reckon that saved me. You were that quick. I can’t thank you.” “Don’t thank me, Hugh. Thank God.” He looked soberly down at the dead man. “There, but for His grace, lies Hugh McClintock.” “Yes,” agreed Hugh solemnly. CHAPTER XXXIV THE BALD KNOB STRIKE The room with the bullet hole in the swing door at the Ormsby House had become a place of pilgrimage. The proprietor of the hotel and its patrons pointed it out with pride to strangers and told the story of how Scot McClintock, left for dead, had come to life by sheer will power and killed one of the murderers through the door without even seeing him. In Scot’s actions there had always been a quality which distinguished them from those of other men. He had the gift of the heroic touch—somehow struck from men’s imaginations a spark of fire. His gaiety and spirit, the sunny grace of his bearing, made for romance. The affair at the Ormsby House capped the climax. It bordered on the Homeric. To be taken at advantage by the two most redoubtable killers of the West, to be shot through and through and left for dead, and to take immediate vengeance on one of them under almost impossible circumstances was a combination of dramatic effect so unusual as to pinnacle even Colonel McClintock.