"Who th’ devil told you to stick yore Dutch mouth—" retorted Youbet; but Clayton cut him short. "So _yo ’re_ a old-timer, hey?" cried the sheepman. "Well, by God, yore old-time friend Waffles is a coward, a murderer, an’—" [Illustration: "Yo’re a liar!" rang out the vibrant voice of the cowman] "Yo ’re a liar!" rang out the vibrant voice of the cowman, his gun out and leveled in a flash. The seven had moved forward as one man, actuated by the same impulse; and their hands were moving toward their guns when the crashes of Youbet’s weapon reverberated in the small room, the acrid smoke swirling around him as though to shield him from the result of his folly—a result which he had weighed and then ignored. Clayton dropped, with his mouth still open. Towne’s gun chocked back in the scabbard as its owner stumbled blindly over a chair and went down, never to rise. Schultz fired once, and fell back across the table. The three shots had followed one another with incredible quickness; and the seven, not believing that one man would dare attack so many, had not expected his play. Before the stunned sheepmen could begin firing, three were dead. Price, badly wounded, fired as he plunged to the wall for support; and the other three were now wrapped in their own smoke. Wounded in several places, with his gun empty, Youbet hurled the weapon at Price, and missed by so narrow a margin that the sheepman’s aim was spoiled. Youbet now sprang to the bar, and tried to vault over it, to get to the gun which he knew always lay on the shelf behind it. As his feet touched the upper edge of the counter, he grunted and, collapsing like a jackknife, loosed his hold, and fell to the floor. "_Mein Gott!_" groaned Schneider, as he tried to raise himself. He looked around in a dazed manner, hardly understanding just what had happened. "He vas mat; crazy mat!" Oleson arose unsteadily to his feet, and groped his way along, the wall to where Price lay. The fallen man looked up, in response to the touch on his shoulder; and he swore feebly: "Damn that fool—that idiot!" "Shut up, an’ git out!" shouted the bartender, standing rigidly upright, with a heavy Colt in his upraised hand. There were tears in his eyes, and his voice broke from excitement. "He wouldn’t swaller yore insults! He knowed he was a better man! Get out of here, every damned one of you, or I ’ll begin where he stopped. G ’wan—_get out_!" The four looked at him, befuddled and sorely hurt; but they understood the attitude, if they did not quite grasp the words—and they knew that he meant what he looked. Staggering and hobbling, they finally found the door, and plunged out to the street, to meet the crowd of men who were running toward the building. Jimmy, choking with anger and with respect for the man who had preferred death to insults, slammed shut the door and, dropping the bar into place, turned and gazed at the quiet figure huddled at the base of the counter.