The man sat down on a chopping-block outside and churned his hatred of Sanders and Crawford. He spurred himself with drink, under its influence recalling the injuries they had done him. His rage and passion simmered, occasionally exploded into raucous curses. Once he strode into the house, full of furious intent, but the eyes of the girl daunted him. They looked at him as they might have looked at a tiger padding toward her. He flung out of the house again, snarling at his own weakness. There was something in him stronger than passion, stronger than his reckless will, that would not let him lay a hand on her in the light of day. His bloodshot eyes looked for the sun. In a few hours now it would be dark. While he lounged sullenly on the chopping-block, shoulders and head sunken, a sound brought him to alert attention. A horseman was galloping down the slope on the other side of the valley. Doble eased his guns to make sure of them. Intently he watched the approaching figure. He recognized the horse, Chiquito, and then, with an oath, the rider. His eyes gleamed with evil joy. At last! At last he and Dave Sanders would settle accounts. One of them would be carried out of the valley feet first. Sanders leaped to the ground at the same instant that he pulled Chiquito up. The horse was between him and his enemy. The eyes of the men crossed in a long, level look. "Where's Joyce Crawford?" asked Dave. "That yore business?" Doble added to his retort the insult unmentionable. "I'm makin' it mine. What have you done with her?" The speech of the younger man took on again the intonation of earlier days. "I'm here to find out." A swish of skirts, a soft patter of feet, and Joyce was beside her friend, clinging to him, weeping in his arms. Doble moved round in a wide circumference. When shooting began he did not want his foe to have the protection of the horse's body. Not even for the beat of a lid did the eyes of either man lift from the other. "Go back to the house, Joyce," said Dave evenly. "I want to talk with this man alone." The girl clung the tighter to him. "No, Dave, no! It's been ... awful." The outlaw drew his long-barreled six-shooter, still circling the group. He could not fire without running a risk of hitting Joyce. "Hidin' behind a woman, are you?" he taunted, and again flung the epithet men will not tolerate. At any moment he might fire. Dave caught the wrists of the girl, dragged them down from his neck, and flung her roughly from him to the ground. He pulled out his little bulldog. Doble fired and Dave fell. The outlaw moved cautiously closer, exultant at his marksmanship. His enemy lay still, the pistol in his hand. Apparently Sanders had been killed at the first shot. "Come to git me with that popgun, did you? Hmp! Fat chance." The bad man fired again, still approaching very carefully. Round the corner of the house a man had come. He spoke quickly. "Turn yore gun this way, Dug."