There was not time for Jim to draw, but, agile as a cat, he threw himself against Black’s arm and the bullet went wild. For a moment the advantage was his, and he wrested the weapon from Black’s hand. It fell to the ground. The two men grappled. The struggle was short and fierce. Each strove with all the strength of his concentrated hate to keep the other’s hand from his belt. When the feet of the wrestlers left the fallen weapon free, Langford, who had been waiting for this opportunity, sprang forward and seized it with a thrill of satisfaction. Command of the situation was once more his. But the revolver was empty, and he turned to throw himself into the struggle empty-handed. Jim would thus be given a chance to draw. At that moment, Black twisted his arm free and his hand dropped like a flash to his belt, where there was a revolver that was loaded. Jim hugged him closely, but it was of no use now. The bullet tore its cruel way through his side. His arms relaxed their hold—he slipped—slowly—down—down. Black shook himself free of him impatiently and wheeled to meet his great enemy. “Quits at last!” he said, with an ugly smile. Quits indeed! For Jim, raising himself slightly, was able to draw at last; and even as he spoke, the outlaw fell. “Jim, my boy,” said Langford, huskily. He was kneeling, Jim’s head in his arms. “Well, Boss,” said Jim, trying to smile. His eyes were clear. “It was my affair, Jim, you ought not to have done it,” said Langford, brokenly. “It’s all right—Boss—don’t you worry—I saw you—in the hall that night. You are—the Boss. Tell Mary so. Tell her I was—glad—to go—so you could go to her—and it would be—all right. She—loves you—Boss—you needn’t be afraid.” “Jim, I cannot bear it; I must go in your stead.” “To Mary—yes.” His voice sank lower and lower. An added paleness stole over his face, but his eyes looked into Langford’s serenely, almost happily. “Go—to Mary in my stead—Boss,” he whispered. “Tell her Jim gave his Boss—to her—when he had to go—tell her he was glad to go—I used to think it was ‘Mouse-hair’—I am glad it is—Mary—tell her good-bye—tell her the Three Bars wouldn’t be the same to Jim with a woman in it anyway—tell her—” And with a sigh Jim died. CHAPTER XXIII THE PARTY AT THE LAZY S Mary stared thoughtfully into the mirror. It was a better one than the sliver into which she had looked more than a year before, when Paul Langford came riding over the plains to the Lazy S. A better house had risen from the ashes of the homestead laid waste by the cattle rustlers. Affairs were well with George Williston now that the hand of no man was against him. He prospered. Louise stepped to the door. “I am in despair, Mary,” she said, whimsically. “Mrs. White has ordered me out of the kitchen. What do you think of that?”