That was the final straw. David Vallory flung himself across the card-table in a mad-bull charge, carrying the table with him in his eagerness to close with his antagonist. For a few breathless seconds the battle was obstructed. David’s rush had borne Lushing backward, tilting the chair in which he was sitting until it brought up against the wall and was crushed under his weight and David’s and that of the overturned table. Too furious to fight coolly, David tried to snatch the wreck of the broken chair out of the way so that he could get at the man entangled in it and held down by the tipped table. One good punch he got in, or thought he did, and then there was a stunning crash, a fleeting whiff of powder smoke, and the light went out. XX In the Ore Shed When David came to his senses he found himself lying on bare ground in the dark. There seemed to be a weight like that of an elephant’s knee pressing upon his chest, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he could get his breath. Somewhere near at hand he could hear sounds as of a woman sobbing. Next he realized vaguely that his boots had been taken off. Groping aimlessly in the dark, his hand found the woman. She was kneeling beside him, and at his touch the sobs became a choking cry. “Davie, dear; is it yourself that’s alive?” The voice seemed to come from an immense distance, but he heard it and recognized it. “You, Judith?”--then, jerkily: “What’s--happened--to me?” “’Tis killed dead you are!” she whimpered. “Nothing like it.” The words were coming a bit easier now and he did not have to stop and gasp between each pair of them. Also, he was beginning to remember some of the events precedent. “Did--did the house fall down on me?” he asked. “Jim Lushing--the black curse be upon him!--he shot you; didn’t you know that?” “I don’t remember. Whereabouts am I hit?” “I wouldn’t be knowing that at all, Davie; I’m just this minute here. The shed watchman came and told me that Lushing had killed you in Jack’s place down the street. ’Twas scared they were to have you found dead in that place, so they carried you here.” “Scared?” said David. “For what your men might do; there’s a many of them in town, and they’d have wrecked the place. Where is it hurting you, Davie, dear?” “I feel as if somebody had given me the heart punch--I believe that’s what the ring-fighters call it. But it’s letting up a bit now. Where am I?” “In the Murtrie ore shed. They’d be putting it up to Mike Drogheen, the watchman, to say he’d shot you--taking you for an ore thief.” “And paying him well for it, I suppose.” He was groping carefully for the wound and found only a rip in the left breast of the brown duck shooting-coat. There was no blood; only a tremendous soreness. He raised himself and sat up. “If we only had a light of some sort,” he muttered.