“BUCK DUANE! Yes,” he broke out, hotly. “The Nueces gunman! That two-shot, ace-of-spades lone wolf! You an' I--we've heard a thousand times of him--talked about him often. An' here he IN FRONT of you! Poggin, you were backin' Fletcher's new pard, Buck Duane. An' he'd fooled you both but for me. But _I_ know him. An' I know why he drifted in here. To flash a gun on Cheseldine--on you--on me! Bah! Don't tell me he wanted to join the gang. You know a gunman, for you're one yourself. Don't you always want to kill another man? An' don't you always want to meet a real man, not a four-flush? It's the madness of the gunman, an' I know it. Well, Duane faced you--called you! An' when I sprung his name, what ought you have done? What would the boss--anybody--have expected of Poggin? Did you throw your gun, swift, like you have so often? Naw; you froze. An' why? Because here's a man with the kind of nerve you'd love to have. Because he's great--meetin' us here alone. Because you know he's a wonder with a gun an' you love life. Because you an' I an' every damned man here had to take his front, each to himself. If we all drew we'd kill him. Sure! But who's goin' to lead? Who was goin' to be first? Who was goin' to make him draw? Not you, Poggin! You leave that for a lesser man--me--who've lived to see you a coward. It comes once to every gunman. You've met your match in Buck Duane. An', by God, I'm glad! Here's once I show you up!” The hoarse, taunting voice failed. Knell stepped back from the comrade he hated. He was wet, shaking, haggard, but magnificent. “Buck Duane, do you remember Hardin?” he asked, in scarcely audible voice. “Yes,” replied Duane, and a flash of insight made clear Knell's attitude. “You met him--forced him to draw--killed him?” “Yes.” “Hardin was the best pard I ever had.” His teeth clicked together tight, and his lips set in a thin line. The room grew still. Even breathing ceased. The time for words had passed. In that long moment of suspense Knell's body gradually stiffened, and at last the quivering ceased. He crouched. His eyes had a soul-piercing fire. Duane watched them. He waited. He caught the thought--the breaking of Knell's muscle-bound rigidity. Then he drew. Through the smoke of his gun he saw two red spurts of flame. Knell's bullets thudded into the ceiling. He fell with a scream like a wild thing in agony. Duane did not see Knell die. He watched Poggin. And Poggin, like a stricken and astounded man, looked down upon his prostrate comrade. Fletcher ran at Duane with hands aloft. “Hit the trail, you liar, or you'll hev to kill me!” he yelled. With hands still up, he shouldered and bodied Duane out of the room. Duane leaped on his horse, spurred, and plunged away. CHAPTER XXIII