Thereafter, events moved with all the breathless unreality of dream. The second man turned across to meet the first. A revolver leaped up, shining in the light; he fired point-blank. The gray man staggered back. Yet, taken all unaware, so deadly swift he was that both men fired now together. Nor was Jeff imprudently idle. He was in the line of fire, directly behind the short man. To the left, across the sidewalk, the hole of a tree was just visible beyond the house corner. Jeff leaped for this friendly shelter--and butted headlong into human ribs. A one-hundred-and-sixty-pound projectile deals no light blow, and Jeff’s initial velocity was the highest he could command at such slight notice. The owner of the ribs reeled out into the street, beyond the shadows. A huge man, breathless, gasping, with a revolver drawn; his thumb was on the hammer. So much Jeff knew and closed on him, his left hand clutched the gun, the hammer was through his finger. They wrenched and tore at the gun; and had the bigger man grappled now he might have crushed Jeff at once, broken him by main strength. But he was a man of one idea--and he had a second gun. A violent jerk threw Jeff to his knee, but he kept his desperate grip. The second gun flashed in the giant’s left hand, rising and falling with the frontier firing motion; but Jeff’s own gun was out, he struck up the falling death, the bullet sang above him. He was on his feet, in trampling, unreal struggle; again he struck the gun aside as it belched fire. Turning, whirling, straining, Jeff was dizzily conscious that the men beneath the light were down, both still shooting; the cab had stopped, men were running toward him shouting. The giant’s dreadful strength was undirected, heaving and thrusting purposeless; time for order and response would be time for crashing death to find him; his one frantic thought was to shoot first, to shoot fast. Shaken, tossed and thrown, Jeff kept his feet, kept his head, kept close in; as the great man’s gun rose and fell he parried with his own. Three shots, four--the others fired no longer; five--one more--Six! It was warded, Jeff drew back, fired his first shot from his hip; the giant dragged at him, heaved forward, and struck out mightily, hammerwise. Jeff saw the blow gleaming down as he fired again. Glint of myriad lights streamed sparkwise across an infinite blackness; he knew no more. The clock was still striking. Chapter III “Please go ’way and let me sleep, I would rather sleep than eat!” --_The Sluggard._ “He’s coming round. That man’s suhtenly got a cast-iron skull. Such a blow with a .45 would ’a’ killed most fellers. What you goin’ to do with him, Judge?”