McCoppet was far less calm than he appeared. How much was already really known to the town was a matter wholly of conjecture. And Trimmer's haste to cash in thus and probably vanish excited his gravest suspicions. He eyed his friend narrowly. "Larry, we'll wait and see how much you've maybe leaked." "No we won't wait fer nuthin'!--not fer nuthin', understand?" corrected Trimmer aggressively. "I ain't a-trustin' you, Opal, no more! You done me up at every turn, and now, by God! you're goin' to come to terms!" He pulled an ugly, rusty gun, and thumped with its muzzle on the table. "You'll never leave this room alive if I don't git the money. Ring fer it, Opal, ring the bell, and order it in with the drinks!" McCoppet would have temporized. It was not so much the money now as the state of affairs in the street. How much was known?--and what was being done? These were the questions in his mind. "Don't get excited, friend," he said. "If things are out, and you and I are caught with the aces in our sleeves, we may have to fight back to back." He was edging around to draw his pistol unobserved, But Trimmer was alert. "Stand still, there, Opal, I've got the drop," he said. "I'm lookin' out fer number one, this morning, understand? You ring the----" A sudden, loud knock at the door broke in upon his speech, and both men started in alarm. "Opal! Opal!" cried a muffled voice in accents of warning just outside the door, "Christler's on your trail! Come out! Come out and--huh! Too late! You'll have to get out the window!" The roar and excitement of the coming crowd, aroused to a wild indignation, broke even to the den. An army of citizens, leading the way for Christler's deputies, was storming McCoppet's saloon. He heard, and a little understood. He knew too much to attempt to explain, to accuse even Trimmer to a mob in heat. Nothing but flight was possible, and perhaps even that was a risk. He started for the window. Trimmer leaped before him. "No you don't!" he said. "I told you, Opal----" "Take that!" the gambler cut in sharply. His gun leaped out with flame at its end; and the roar, fire, bullet, and all seemed to bury in the lumberman's body. A second shot and a third did the same--and Trimmer went down like a log. His gun had fallen from his hand. With all his brute vitality he crawled to take it up. One of the bullets had pierced his heart, but yet he would not die. McCoppet had snatched up a chair and with it he beat out the window. Then Trimmer's gun crashed tremendously--and Opal sank against the sill. He faced his man. A ghastly pallor spread upon his countenance. He went down slowly, like a man of melting snow, his cigar still hanging on his lip. He saw the lumberman shiver. But the fellow crowded his cigar stump in his mouth, with fire and all, and chewed it up as he was dying. "Good shot," said McCoppet faintly. His head went forward on his breast and he crumpled on the floor. CHAPTER XLVI