Ron Crag watched. The killer was apparently oblivious to their presence. Ron wet dry lips with his tongue, while his fingers slowly reset the dials on the gun. Range: sixty yards! Diameter of beam: four inches! Slowly he raised the gun and took careful aim, eight inches to the right, eighteen inches above the radiant cluster of space moths. If he was wrong, if he.... It was a gamble and if he was shooting at the wrong space Joe Braun would get him with the flare of Ron's gun. Even if he only wounded him, the other would get him. "Worried, feller--" the harsh voice began. A coruscating tube of flame leaped at the shadow across the canyon; for a moment it illuminated the area around the bandit in a brilliant glare. His taunting voice broke off with an agonized gasp. In the brief flash Ron Crag saw the man twist erect, his empty hands grasping heavenward. He took three halting steps and tumbled into full view in the earthlight. A great, charred hole was burned completely through his chest, and already the space moths were shifting to the wound, eagerly absorbing the escaping heat from the suit, and from Joe Braun's body. [Illustration: _In the brief flash Ron Crag saw the man twist erect._] Ron Crag slowly approached the crumpled form, gun ready. One glance at the sightless eyes, the bearded face and open mouth behind the visorport was all he needed to confirm what he already knew. Joe Braun had jumped his last uranium claim; Joe Braun had pulled his last gun. He leaned over the body, examining it closely. His gamble had panned out. One corner of the thermocube on Braun's right hip was fused and a pinpoint hole was evident. The heat bolt Crag thought struck the killer's accessory belt had not missed after all. "I'll be a fork-tailed comet!" Ron Crag breathed. He glanced affectionately at the squirming, purple creatures. "Thanks, friends," he murmured. Then he set out on shaking legs for the catatread.