The sheriff nodded and looked at the sun, only half of which was visible now. He blinked from the strong light and cut several shavings, which did not suit him at all. A couple of dogs met in the middle of the street; town dogs, fat and with a friendship of long standing. But now they growled ominously at each other, as they circled, looking for an opening. “Sic ’em!” hissed a cowboy from in front of the Desert Well. “Take him, Tige! Shake his fleas loose. Four bits on the yaller one.” “You’ve done made a bet, cowboy. Choose him, Ponto.” But the dogs only circled and growled, and finally separated. “Mebbe they’re waitin’ for the sun to go down,” whispered Ben. The sheriff shook his head. “Got more sense than men have.” * * * * * The sun was down. Only the tip was visible, and the crests of the broken hills showed a golden highlight. It was very still in Mojave Wells. The shadows were gone now and the street glowed with a yellow light, which would not last long. Twilight was unknown in Mojave Wells. Sundown, a streak of gold, would quickly fade to blue, and then darkness. Bud Hickman came from the Desert Well and went straight to the hitch rack, where he untied his horse and swung into the saddle. Simultaneously with Bud’s move, Pete Asher came riding from the rack beside the Prospect. It was not a casual move. They intended to deceive nobody, not even the sheriff of Mojave Wells. The cowboys of both outfits were in the street, watching intently. Bud came straight to the sheriff, and fifty feet behind him was Pete. Bud’s face was grim, his mouth set in a thin line. “I’m pullin’ out, Buck,” he said softly. “Would you mind handin’ me my gun?” The sheriff stopped whittling, tilted forward in his chair and got slowly to his feet. He looked closely at Bud, but said nothing, as he turned and went into the office. Pete moved in closer, but he and Bud ignored each other. Ben sighed and leaned against the wall. The sheriff came out, carrying a gun in each hand. For several moments he looked at the two men rather sorrowfully. “I reckon you’re pullin’ out, too, ain’tcha, Pete?” Pete nodded quickly and held out his hand for the gun. They had been friends, these two, until a woman had come between them. Bud holstered his gun, swung his horse around and rode slowly down the street, looking straight ahead. Pete accepted his gun, glanced at it to see that it was fully loaded, snapped it down in his holster and swung his horse around, riding back to the center of the street. Ben swore softly under his breath. Both of these men were good revolver shots. “Goin’ to be a funeral around here--mebbe two,” he muttered. “Why don’tcha stop it, Buck? Gawd A’mighty, this ain’t right! Look at Bud--he’s turnin’!” “You didn’t expect he’d run away, didja?”