Peter Zinn stood up with a gasp. Here was something quite different. The constable was beaten, broken, and he reminded Zinn of one thing only--old Gripper cowering against the fence with Blondy towering above, ready to kill. Blondy had been merciful, but the marked man behind the window was still intent on murder. His next bullet raised a white furrow of dust near Frejus. Then a wild voice, made thin and high by the extremity of fear and pain, came through the air and smote the heart Peter Zinn: “Help! For God’s sake, mercy!” Tom Frejus was crushed indeed, and begging as Gripper had begged. A hundred voices were shouting with horror but no man dared venture out in the face of that cool-witted marksman. Then Peter Zinn knew the thing which he had been born to do, for which he had been granted strength of hand and courage of heart. He threw his long arms out before him as though he were running to embrace a bodiless thing; great wordless voice swelled in his breast and tore his throat; and he ran out toward the fallen constable. Some woman’s voice was screaming: “Back! Go back, Peter! Oh, God! Stop him! Stop him!” Minster had already marked his coming. The rifle cracked, and a blow to the side of his head knocked Peter Zinn into utter blackness. A searing pain and the hot flow of blood down his face brought back his senses. He leaped to his feet again; he heard a yelp of joy as Blondy danced away before him; then he drove past the writhing body of Tom Frejus. The gun spoke again from the window; the red-hot torment stabbed him again, he knew not where. Then he reached the door of the building and gave his shoulder to it. It was a thing of paper that ripped open before him. He plunged through into the room beyond, where he saw the long, snarling face of the young Minster in the shadow of a corner with the gleam of the leveled rifle barrel. He dodged as the gun spat fire, heard brief and wicked humming beside his ear, then scooped up in one hand heavy chair and flung it at the gunman. Minster went down with his legs and arms sprawled in an odd position, and Peter Zinn gave him not so much as another glance, for he knew that this part of his work was done. “Lew! Lew!” cried a voice from the back of the building. “What’s happened? What’s up? D’you want help?” “Ay!” shouted Peter Zinn. “He wants help. You damn’ murderer, it’s me--Peter Zinn! Peter Zinn!” He kicked open the door beyond and ran full into the face of a lightning flash. It withered the strength from his body. He slumped down on the floor with his loose shoulders resting against the wall. In a twilight dimness he saw big Jeff Minster standing in a thin swirl of smoke with the rifle muzzle twitching down and steadying for the finishing shot, but a white streak leaped through the doorway, over his shoulder, and flew at Minster.