Stone turned to run, and for the first time saw that his retreat was cut off. As fast as he could pump the lever his rifle began working again. The firing this time did not last more than five seconds. When the smoke cleared it was all over. Soapy lay on his back, shot through and through. Blackwell had taken advantage of the diversion to crawl through the strands of barbed wire and to disappear in the chaparral. Bill had rolled over on his face. Curly crept through the fence after the escaping man, but in that heavy undergrowth he knew it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. After a time he gave it up and returned to the field of battle. Dick was bending over Stone. He looked up at the approach of his friend and said just one word. "Dead." Cullison had torn open Cranston's shirt and was examining his wounds. "No use, Luck. I've got a-plenty. You sure fooled us thorough. Was it Sam gave us away?" "No, Bill. Curly overheard Soapy and Blackwell at Chalkeye's Place. Sam stood pat, though you were planning to murder him." "I wasn't in on that, Luck--didn't know a thing about it till after the boy was shot. I wouldn't a-stood for it." "He wasn't shot. Curly saved him. He had to give you away to do it." "Good enough. Serves Soapy right for double crossing Sam. Take care of that kid, Luck. He's all right yet." His eye fell on Flandrau. "You're a game sport, son. You beat us all. No hard feelings." "Sorry it had to be this way, Bill." The dying man was already gray to the lips, but his nerve did not falter. "It had to come some time. And it was Luck ought to have done it too." He waved aside Sweeney, who was holding a flask to his lips. "What's the use? I've got mine." "Shall we take him to the house?" Maloney asked. "No. I'll die in the open. Say, there's something else, boys. Curly has been accused of that Bar Double M horse rustling back in the early summer. I did that job. He was not one of us. You hear, boys. Curly was not in it." A quarter of an hour later he died. He had lied to save from the penitentiary the lad who had brought about his death. Curly knew why he had done it--because he felt himself to blame for the affair. Maybe Bad Bill had been a desperado, a miscreant according to the usual standard, but when it came to dying he knew how to go better than many a respectable citizen. Curly stole off into the darkness so that the boys would not see him play the baby. By this time the men from the Flatiron were appearing, armed with such weapons as they could hastily gather. The situation was explained to them. Neighboring ranches were called up by telephone and a systematic hunt started to capture Blackwell.