The weazen little man was most deliberate. Coming around to the rear end of the ambulance, he reached up to the door latch. But this action was a bluff--the boy felt sure of that. The lad didn’t feel like carrying out his threat. To shoot through the doors might kill someone and he didn’t want to kill. At most it was desirable to inflict only a wound. Surely there must be a way to win out here and Don had already learned to depend on the power of his shooting-iron. He had every inch of his nerve with him at this moment. “Can’t open it, eh? Can’t? Well, I’ll show you how then.” He walked quickly to the car and taking the revolver by the chamber in his left hand--not a thing a wise gunman would do at any time, under stress of threatening circumstances he caught the lower corner of one door that was warped enough to gap at the bottom, and, with a wrench he tore off the frail fastening. The doors flew open. The next instant Don was tumbling on the ground, struggling to rise. He felt a determination to fight, and hold this man still uppermost in his mind, in spite of a heavy blow over the head from within the car. Where was his weapon? Why could he not instantly regain his feet? Was that the noise of the crippled car getting away? Where was Wash? Why did he not shoot? Then there was a period of unconsciousness until, a few minutes later, he did get to his feet to stare into the frightened eyes of Washington White. “Oh, by cracky, they hit me and--they’re gone! Wash, Wash, why didn’t you shoot ’em? Why didn’t you--?” “Shoot nuthin’! Man, man, how come yo’ lef’ de barrel plum empty? Dey wuz no ca’tridge in de barrel. Ah cocked her ’en pulled de trigger ’en cocked her again ’en pulled ’en she wouldn’t go off nohow ’en by de time Ah projecated whar de troble was, dem fellahs wuz a flyin’ down de road lak Ol’ Man Scratch wuz a huntin’ ’em. But ’tain’t so much Ah keer ef dey is gone so’s yu ain’ daid.” “Well, I care!” Don was clearly regaining his senses. “But it was my fault, Wash. I never thought to pump a cartridge into the barrel, and what a fool I was to pull that door open and not be ready. That villain was laying for me and, say, their car wasn’t crippled much, either.” In the roadway, where the disabled car had stood, lay two monkey-wrenches and a small bolt which probably had pivoted a brake rod. At the rate of speed that car had started to gain, there would probably be no use for brakes! “We’ve got to get back and report this fellow,” Don said, returning his rifle to its case, and the revolver to its holster on his belt. “We’ve got only about twenty minutes’ run yet, I think. Say, I feel like ten fools to let those devils get away. Keep your eye open for an M. P. on the road.”