A shout of fury. A wild chorus of meaningless blasphemy. A thundering of hoofs. A shriek of pain--an appalling death-cry. The fight has begun--such a fight, in its wanton savagery, as might shame even the forest beasts. In a moment the human lusting for the blood of its fellows is let loose, than which there is no more terrible madness on earth. Yet there was a difference. There was a difference of motive widely separating the combatants; and it was a difference that left the balance of offense doubtful. To analyze the mental attitude of these people adequately would be well-nigh impossible. Their outlook possessed distortions which changed with chameleon-like rapidity. On the one hand was a band of lawless ruffians, steeped to their very souls in every sort of crime, in whose minds all law was anathema, in whose understanding all possession was a deliberate challenge, in whose hearts was no pity, no mercy, no feeling which belongs to the gentler side of human life; to whose comprehension death has no meaning until its relentless grip is fixed, and they feel the last spark of life crushing out of their own bodies. Then--But the analysis becomes hopelessly chaotic. On the other hand motive is perhaps even more difficult still, though a shade less hopeless. The gambler was a man of strong thought, of strong forces. Nor was he devoid of the gentler feelings of life. Yet here lies the difficulty of associating the various sides of his character with his actions. He had set out for this encounter. He had yearned for it, as a child might yearn for a plaything. The contemplation of it gave him ecstasy. With an inhuman joy he desired the lives of these men. Not one, but all; and one even more than all. Then, too, his purpose was in face of overwhelming odds--in face of almost a certainty of death for himself. Such actions have been performed before in noble cases, but here--? Was it simply his purpose to yield himself a martyr to the public welfare? Was it that he truly desired to avenge a wronged man? Was he setting himself up as the avenger of Sid Morton's cruel death, a man in whom he had no interest whatever? No. It would be absurd to believe that these things were the promptings responsible for his present actions. Some hideous psychological twist was driving him. Some passion swayed him over which he had no control whatever. Some degeneracy was upsetting his mental balance, and forcing him against his better instincts. But, even so, his whole attitude was that of a man of clear, alert mind, of iron purpose, of a courage invincible. Calm and cold Wild Bill crouched while, in the first rush of battle, the shots hailed about him. He reserved his fire, too, waiting for the effective moment with the patience of a skillful general. His every shot must tell, and tell desperately.