"Madden, you've too much sense to believe all this trumped-up libel!" Sorenson exclaimed furiously. "About us, respected leaders of this town! Arrest the blackguard!" Even facing assured proof of his complicity and guilt, the cattleman still believed in the power of his wealth and influence, in his ability to browbeat opponents, to command the man he had elected to office, to dominate and ruthlessly crush by sheer will power all resistance, as he had done for years. "I take no orders from you," the sheriff replied. "Well, I suppose I can empty the till and lock the safe before going?" Vorse questioned. "No. Keep in front of the bar where you are," the sheriff commanded. "And have everything stolen." "Your bar-keeper will be back presently. He will look after things for you." "You say Burkhardt is locked up?" "Yes." "That will hurt his pride," Vorse laughed. "He always swore that no one should put him behind bars. He wouldn't have minded so much finishing in a gun-fight, but to serve a term in prison would surely go against the grain with Burk. Though I think with Sorenson----" Weir's eyes had never left the speaker. Through the other's inconsequential talk and apparently careless acceptance of the fact of arrest the engineer had noted the tense gathering of the man's body. "Put your hands up," he interrupted at this point. Vorse had uttered no following word after speaking Sorenson's name; his voice terminated abruptly. At the same instant his right hand flew to his holster and whipped out his gun. It was the advantageous time for which he had waited, for Madden's look which had been moving back and forth from Vorse to Sorenson so as to cover both had passed to the latter. And Weir's weapon was undrawn. But if Vorse drew fast, the engineer's motion was like a flash of light. His weapon leaped on a level with the other's breast. The report sounded a second before that of Vorse's and three before Madden's, who also had fired. Then, if ever, Steele Weir had displayed his amazing speed in beating an enemy to his gun, for Vorse had indeed been quick, keyed by a knowledge that for him this meant imprisonment or freedom, a slow death or liberty. For a minute he stood half crouching as he had been at the instant of shooting, his eyes glaring balefully at his enemy and the thin cruel smile on his lips, while the two men in front stood warily waiting with weapons extended. Then Vorse clutched at his breast, muttered thickly and toppled over full length on the floor. The sharp pungent smell of powder smoke mingled with the reek of liquor. "He's dead," Madden said. "Yes." "Are you hit?" "No. His bullet went past my hip; he never got his gun up."