Miss Elaine Norcross Webb, only daughter of Charles P. Webb, New York and Newport multi-millionaire, with yachts, country-houses and all that goes with them at her disposal, had never been referred to before, at least within hearing, as “this here girl.” But having fighting blood herself, she rallied quickly. “What happened to the lion?” she asked, just as gravely as Bud. “It’s a right sad thing,” answered Sam Earp slowly. “He was--what was he doing, Bud? You were around when it happened.” “It was this-a-way,” said Bud, a look of scorn in his eyes as they dwelt a moment on the uninventive Mr. Earp. “That lion had a right bad habit of trying to climb the tent-pole backwards, and every time he got out, he’d--” * * * * * The muffled sound of two shots came from the adobe house next to the bank; the door crashed open, and five Mexicans ran out. They turned at the edge of the sidewalk, and as a white man staggered from the doorway, an old single-action .41 in his hand, they raked the doorway and the windows of the house with a stream of lead. The white man pitched forward on his face, and the Mexicans started to run up the street directly toward Elaine and the two rangers. She had just time to see the faces of Bud Yancey and Sam Earp suddenly become grim and cold before she felt Bud’s arm close around her waist, forcing her to her knees behind him. “Lie down,” he commanded, no trace of a drawl now in his voice. Then she saw them run to the middle of the street, guns materializing in their hands as if by magic. There was a quick flurry of shots that came before she could get on her feet, which she promptly did, in spite of the command to get down. Two of the Mexicans lay in the street; one was retreating toward the corner, firing as he went; one did not attempt to do any fighting but ran swiftly to the corner and disappeared; the other stood still, his hands above his head. Sam Earp was sitting in the dusty street, the right side of his face a blur of blood, his right arm hanging limp, and his left hand reaching for his gun, which had dropped from his hand as a bullet had torn through his wrist. [Illustration: Bud’s weapon rose and fell; the Mexican whirled as if hit by a giant fist, then sank to the ground.] Bud Yancey stood erect, his heels together, swaying a little as the red splotch on his soft white shirt up near his shoulder widened. Elaine could see the frozen-looking little smile on his lips, and his eyes, now as cold and wintry as northern ice in the gray of dawn. The Mexican fired twice, then as Bud’s weapon rose and fell, whirled around as if hit by a giant fist, his knees gave way and he sank slowly to the ground.