In the corner of the porch scared and stupefied children huddled in a heap. George and Billy bent over Dave, who sat white-faced against the steps. Blood oozed through the fingers pressed to his breast. Zeke was trying to calm the women. “My God! Dave!” cried Hare. “You're not hard hit? Don't say it!” “Hard hit--Jack--old fellow,” replied Dave, with a pale smile. His face was white and clammy. August Naab looked once at him and groaned, “My son! My son!” “Dad--I got Chance and Culver--there they lie in the road--not bungled, either!” Hare saw the inert forms of two men lying near the gate; one rested on his face, arm outstretched with a Colt gripped in the stiff hand; the other lay on his back, his spurs deep in the ground, as if driven there in his last convulsion. August Naab and Zeke carried the injured man into the house. The women and children followed, and Hare, with Billy and George, entered last. “Dad--I'm shot clean through--low down,” said Dave, as they laid him on a couch. “It's just as well I--as any one--somebody had to--start this fight.” Naab got the children and the girls out of the room. The women were silent now, except Dave's wife, who clung to him with low moans. He smiled upon all with a quick intent smile, then he held out a hand to Hare. “Jack, we got--to be--good friends. Don't forget--that--when you meet-- Holderness. He shot me--from behind Chance and Culver--and after I fell- -I killed them both--trying to get him. You--won't hang up--your gun-- again--will you?” Hare wrung the cold hand clasping his so feebly. “No! Dave, no!” Then he fled from the room. For an hour he stood on the porch waiting in dumb misery. George and Zeke came noiselessly out, followed by their father. “It's all over, Hare.” Another tragedy had passed by this man of the desert, and left his strength unshaken, but his deadly quiet and the gloom of his iron face were more terrible to see than any grief. “Father, and you, Hare, come out into the road,” said George. Another motionless form lay beyond Chance and Culver. It was that of a slight man, flat on his back, his arms wide, his long black hair in the dust. Under the white level brow the face had been crushed into a bloody curve. “Dene!” burst from Hare, in a whisper. “Killed by a horse!” exclaimed August Naab. “Ah! What horse?” “Silvermane!” replied George. “Who rode my horse--tell me--quick!” cried Hare, in a frenzy. “It was Mescal. Listen. Let me tell you how it all happened. I was out at the forge when I heard a bunch of horses coming up the lane. I wasn't packing my gun, but I ran anyway. When I got to the house there was Dave facing Snap, Dene, and a bunch of rustlers. I saw Chance at first, but not Holderness. There must have been twenty men. “'I came after Mescal, that's what,' Snap was saying. “'You can't have her,' Dave answered. “'We'll shore take her, an' we want Silvermane, too,' said Dene. “'So you're a horse-thief as well as a rustler?' asked Dave.