The labored breathing of the combatants and the chilling clash of blades, were the only sounds that broke in upon the sweet-scented stillness of the mountain morning. The scene held the spectators breathless. Even the great outlaw found himself interested in the desperate battle. Blood was over everything, but the desperadoes heeded it not. The rancher's eyes were strained and the eyelids, drawn far up against the forehead, never once closed in a wink. The blade of one antagonist went through the other's scalp, and a crimson stream spurted half way across the room. The faces of each were scarred with crimson rivulets that were constantly fed from the blood springs above. The blade of the other sheathed itself in the shoulder of his antagonist, and in the next second each was tugging at the hilt of a knife in his opponent's shoulder. The shirts of the desperate combatants were hanging in ribbons where the keen blades had been drawn in hopes of finding a human path and through the rents livid streaks showed in strong relief against the white flesh. Weak from exertion and loss of blood, the fighters staggered together and with arms thrown about each other's necks, hung resting each upon the other. "Break away!" thundered Jesse. His voice seemed to rouse them suddenly--to renew the hate that for the moment had been allowed to slip like a mantle from the hearts of the two friends. Their movements were slower now and less certain. Finally each with a hand upon the other's shoulder began swinging the free arm to give it momentum and even then their blades did not reach. "Thrust!" roared the blood-thirsty bandit chieftain. Exerting a supreme effort a hand swung away from each body and returning empty hung listlessly at its owner's side. Each had buried his blade in the abdomen of the other. For a full moment the antagonists stood with hand on each other's shoulders. At last their bodies began to sway. They toppled and fell. The body of one lay sprawling upon that of his friend. And neither man moved again. "I guess that will be about all," said the notorious outlaw in a harsh rasping tone that chilled them through and through. CHAPTER XVI. THE FIGHT IN THE "GOLDEN ARROW." Silver City lay at the base of two great mountain ranges. It was, like most mining towns of that time, filled with a floating population of gamblers, prospectors, miners and bad men. However, a semblance of law and order had been established by the new sheriff, Ben Teall, whose courage and quickness on the trigger had gained for him no little respect among the gun-toters of that rough country. Some who had doubted both these qualities, were now occupying six-foot claims in Silver City's graveyard. Ben never pulled a trigger unless convinced that his own life was in danger, and then he shot to kill. The fact that he still lived was evidence that he had never yet failed of accomplishing that much desired result.