Three times he was hit in as many seconds, but beyond hugging his flimsy shelter more closely he gave no sign. His purpose rose above all physical hurt or sense of pain. He was watching the movements of one man--of one man only. His gleaming eyes pursued the figure of the outlaw leader to the exclusion of all else. James was his quarry. The rest--well, the rest were merely incidental. And, emboldened by his intended victim's silence, James suddenly changed his tactics. A long-ranged battle was little enough to his savage taste. He ceased the ineffective fire of his men and brought them together. Then in a moment, with the reckless abandon of his class, he headed them and charged. They came, as before, with a brazen shout, and the air was hideous with a fresh outburst of blasphemy, while a rush of lead searched the fragile cart in every direction. But the din of voices, the crash of woodwork as the panels of the cart were riddled by the wildly flung shots, was powerless to draw the defender. His guns were ready. He was ready for the purpose in his mind. That was all. His fierce eyes lit with a murderous intent as he calculated with certainty and exactness. On they came. They drove their maddened horses with savage spurs right up to the cart. It was the moment the gambler awaited. He leapt, and in a flash his tall figure was confronting the leader of the attack. And as he rose his arms were outstretched and his great guns belched their murderous fire. Two men rolled from their saddles with a death-scream that died down to a hideous gurgle, as the racing hoofs trod the last atom of life out of their bodies. His guns belched a second time, and James' throat was plowed open, and the rich red blood spurted in a ghastly tide. Another shot and another man fell forward, clutching his horse's mane while he was borne from the battle-field to the dim recesses of the forest by his uncontrolled and affrighted beast. But the gambler paid a high price for these successes--far higher than he could really afford. Four times more he was badly hit. Four times the hot slither of burning lead plowed its way amidst the life-channels of his body. And his retreat to cover was something almost in the nature of collapse. But the spirit of the man admitted of no weakening. It rose dominant over all physical sensation. He thrust aside the cognizance of his hurts, and abandoned himself solely to his purpose. James was still in the saddle, and the sight of his hated personality consumed him with rage and disgust at the failure of his first attempt. "Still around. Still around," he muttered. And in a moment the battle was surging once more.