But even as he was firmly resolving this his eyelids drooped. His head relaxed against the back of the chair. He made an effort to throw off the drowsiness pressing him down. It was a feeble and unsuccessful one. Presently he was sound asleep. From the summit of Bald Knob the storm swept down with a roar. It hurled itself into the valley with screams like those of a lost soul. It beat against the hut in furious gusts, rattling the windows and shaking the door like some living monster intent on destruction. For hours its rage continued unabated. Meanwhile, from opposite sides of the fireplace, the desperado and the girl watched each other. He had a feral cunning. It had served to keep him alive more than once when he seemed at the end of his rope. Now he piled the fuel high in the stone chimney and pretended to go to sleep. The glow of the heat had the intended effect. It formed an alliance with Vicky’s fatigue. She, too, began to nod at last, her wariness lulled by the stertorous breathing of the big huddled figure opposite. The sense of responsibility was still active in her mind. She decided afterwards that she must have cat-napped, as drivers do on a long night trip, now and again for a few seconds at a time. From one of these she awakened with a start. Dutch was tiptoeing toward her. Their eyes met. He crouched for the leap as her fingers busied themselves with the revolver. The roar of the explosion filled the cabin. The weight of the plunging man flung Vicky to the floor. She lay face down, breathless, oppressed by his huge bulk. The six-shooter had gone clattering beyond her reach. The weight lifted from her. She heard scuffling feet and heavy grunts as she recovered the weapon and fled to the wall. When she turned it was to see the butt of a six-gun rising and falling. There was a gasp, a groan, and one of the struggling figures sank down. The one still standing was Hugh McClintock. The man on the floor writhed painfully, turned over, and sank into quietude. “Are you hurt?” Hugh asked Vicky. “No. Are you?” He shook his head. “I fell asleep. Lucky it was no worse.” “So did I. He was creeping on me when I woke. Is—is he dead?” she asked, awed. “No such luck. I tapped his bean with my gun.” He stooped over the prostrate man and turned him on his back. “Hello! Here’s a wound in his shoulder. You must have hit him.” “Oh, I hope not,” Vicky cried. She looked at the big revolver with a face of horror and threw it on the shelf where she had found it some hours earlier. “Probably saved my life,” Hugh told her quietly. “And you haven’t killed him. He’ll be all right in a week or two. Good work, Vicky.” “I—didn’t know what I was doing,” she sobbed. “My fingers just pressed.” Dutch groaned. “Best thing could have happened,” Hugh said cheerfully. “He’ll not trouble us any more. Have to dress the wound, though. If it makes you sick to——”