Bob caught Joyce and swept her behind him, covering her with his body as best he could. At the same time Sanders plunged forward, arrow-straight and swift. The revolver cracked. It spat fire a second time, a third. The tiger-man, head low, his whole splendid body vibrant with energy, hurled himself across the road as though he had been flung from a catapult. A streak of fire ripped through his shoulder. Another shot boomed almost simultaneously. He thudded hard into the fat paunch of the gunman. They went down together. The fingers of Dave's left hand closed on the fat wrist of the gambler. His other hand tore the revolver away from the slack grasp. The gun rose and fell. Miller went into unconsciousness without even a groan. The corrugated butt of the gun had crashed down on his forehead. Dizzily Sanders rose. He leaned against a telephone pole for support. The haze cleared to show him the white, anxious face of a young woman. "Are you hurt?" she asked. Dave looked at Joyce, wondering at her presence here. "He's the one that's hurt," he answered quietly. "I thought--I was afraid--" Her voice died away. She felt her knees grow weak. To her this man had appeared to be plunging straight to death. No excitement in him reached the surface. His remarkably steady eyes still held their grim, hard tenseness, but otherwise his self-control was perfect. He was absolutely imperturbable. "He was shootin' wild. Sorry you were here, Miss Crawford." His eyes swept the gathering crowd. "You'd better go, don't you reckon?" "Yes.... You come too, please." The girl's voice broke. "Don't worry. It's all over." He turned to the crowd. "He began shootin 'at me. I was unarmed. He shot four times before I got to him." "Tha's right. I saw it from up street," a stranger volunteered. "Where do you take out yore insurance, friend? I'd like to get some of the same." "I'll be in town here if I'm wanted," Dave announced before he came back to where Bob and Joyce were standing. "Now we'll move, Miss Crawford." At the second street corner he stopped, evidently intending to go no farther. "I'll say good-bye, for this time. I'll want to see Mr. Crawford right soon. How is little Keith comin' on?" She had mentioned that the boy frequently spoke of him. "Can you come up to see Father to-night? Or he'll go to your room if you'd rather." "Maybe to-morrow--" "He'll be anxious to see you. I want you and Bob to come to dinner Sunday." "Don't hardly think I'll be here Sunday. My plans aren't settled. Thank you just the same, Miss Crawford." She took his words as a direct rebuff. There was a little lump in her throat that she had to get rid of before she spoke again. "Sorry. Perhaps some other time." Joyce gave him her hand. "I'm mighty glad to have seen you again, Mr. Sanders." He bowed. "Thank you." After she had gone, Dave turned swiftly to his friend. "Where's the nearest doctor's office? Miller got me in the shoulder." CHAPTER XVII OIL