Instantly he grappled it. A knife thrust was the danger now, and he locked his arms about his assailant and heaved sideways, driving his hip against the opposing hip to give momentum to the throw. The other lost his feet and Lafe swung with all his weight, but they crashed against the wall, which brought them upstanding. While one could count ten, the two stood breast to breast, panting. The sheriff suddenly brought his right knee upward with force, desirous of driving it into his opponent's stomach, but the blow was caught on the thigh, and again they went lurching about the room, gasping for breath, but voiceless. As he strove to pin the jerking arms, Johnson's mind ran automatically on the empty chamber. How had the hammer happened on that? Sure--the Fashion man had done it. The discovery gave him new strength. In swift rage he tried for a lower hold, feeling his enemy weaken. The momentary release of his grip was enough. The other wrenched one arm free and swung it. Lafe was dimly conscious of a crash and the tinkle of broken glass. He felt no pain. It seemed to him that trains were rushing by at high speed, and he was beset with the idea that he had something to do that he was powerless to perform. He crumpled up and slid to the floor, his fingers scratching the boards for the handle of his six-shooter, but all the strength seemed gone from them. And now, mingling with the roar of the train and the harsh screaming of brakes, was the rattle of a horse's hoofs. The sheriff stretched out on his back and sighed. The patter of rain on the roof was the first sound that aroused Johnson. Assuredly the house leaked, for there were warm drops falling on his face, too. Next, he heard somebody strike a match, and he began to speculate in a sort of languid wonder as to what a woman was doing there and what made her cry. Then a shooting pain above the right ear wrung an exclamation from him and he tried to sit up. "Don't. Don't. You must lie still." "Hetty," he said. She knelt beside him and held a wet handkerchief to the wound. "You're hurt bad, Lafe. Don't talk," she whispered. "Steve Moffatt--" "Yes, I know, dear. Lie still." Splinters of a bottle strewed the floor around him. So Moffatt had got away. The sheriff looked weakly at Hetty. "How did you get here?" "Hush. You mustn't talk. Keep still and I'll go for Dr. Armstrong." "How--?" "I heard you calling me," she said. "Calling you?" the sheriff repeated. "Why, hon, I never said a word." CHAPTER XXII CAPTURE OF MOFFATT, THE GUNMAN