A second thump, softer than the first, ended the cry, and Purdy, leaping forward, slammed shut the trap and bolted it. "More knife-work!" he gritted, pale with rage. Arising, he leaped toward the cabin door, yanked it open and dashed along the house, staggering as a finger of flame spurted from a loophole in the wall of the store-house, but recovered his balance and turned the corner. As he did so he caught sight of a thickening in the darkness, which moved swiftly and silently along the ditch, and he fired at it. Something whizzed past his neck and rang out, sharp and clear as a bell, on the end wall of the house. He answered it with another shot and saw the blot stagger and fall. From the ditch came a spurt of fire and Purdy plunged forward, firing as he fell. Another shot answered him and again he fired, but with a weak and shaking hand. Then from a loophole behind him Quigley's rifle poked out and sent shot after shot along the ditch, firing on a gamble. As the rifle spoke, a shadow flitted past the corner of the store-house, passed swiftly and silently across the space between the two houses and plunged through the open door of the rustlers' stronghold. It tripped over a box and sprawled headlong just as Quigley wheeled and sent a bullet through the space Johnny had occupied an instant before. Leaping to his feet, Johnny hurled himself upon the rustler, wrenched the rifle loose and gripped the owner's throat. Plunging, heaving, straining, they thrashed around the room, smashing into bunks, breaking dishes; hammering, gouging, biting, choking, they bumped into the door, plunged through the opening and carried the struggle out under the sky. Quigley, his face purple and his eyes popping out, almost senseless on his feet, and fighting from instinct, managed to break the grip on his throat and showered blows on his enemy's face. Sinking his teeth in Johnny's upper arm, he got both of his hands around Johnny's throat and closed his grip with all his weakened strength. Across the yard they reeled, bumped into the corral and along it, following the slope of the ground without thought. Johnny, suffocating, thrust the heel of his right hand against his enemy's nose and pushed upward and back, while his left hand, leaving the gripping fingers around his throat, smashed heavily into Quigley's stomach. The hands relaxed, loosened their grip and fell away, and before they could regain their hold, Johnny's chin settled firmly against his chest and protected his windpipe. Just in time he caught Quigley's gun hand and tore the Colt out of it, whereupon Quigley hammered his face with both hands. Shoving, wrestling, reeling, they came to the edge of the ravine through which flowed Rustler Creek, and, plunging over the steep bank, rolled to the bottom and stopped in the mud and water of the creek itself, where they fought lying down, each trying desperately to remain on top.