Spur Treadwell knew that the little man would utterly damn him in another minute. He seized the moment when he thought Allen was not watching to snatch out his gun. There was a crashing roar, and the gun clattered to the floor, while he nursed a broken hand. As if in echo to his shot, there came a volley from outside. When the last echo had died and silence again reigned, those in the room saw that Jack Allen's face had grown white and strained. He knew from those shots that his brother had met the twins. The twins, Sandy and Mac McGill, saw Jack and Jim Allen flash down the street on the two grays and pull up before old Miser Jimpson's house. They watched Jack run up the path into the house and Jim lead the two horses into the livery-stable yard. The same thought flashed into their minds. They were not sure of Jack, but they now knew the Wolf. Here was the chance to settle that question which had been argued so fiercely for years. Their eyes met, then, without speaking a word, they turned and walked slowly down the street toward the livery stable. Gunmen, such as the McGill twins, were insanely proud of their reputation. This pride did more to rid the West of bad men than all the sheriffs and gallowses put together. Every man must admit that he was king or fight. There was no place on the throne for two kings. Gunmen went about with chips on their shoulders and said to all rivals: "Admit I am the best or go for your gun." A gun fight meant the elimination for all time of either the champion or challenger; no one had a chance to promote a return engagement. For years it had been argued as to which was the faster, the McGill twins or Jim Allen. So Mac and Sandy McGill marched down the street to prove definitely to themselves and to the world that they were quicker than the Wolf. Their faces were always sinister and cruel, but now they were expressionless masks. People took one glance at them, hastily moved out of the way, and then followed them at a safe distance. Every one recognized the look of the killer and knew the town was soon to have gun play. When Jim Allen entered the stable yard, the hostler stepped from the barn to help him loosen the cinches. His mouth opened in an amused grin when he saw the two big guns strapped to the slender legs. His eyes took in the tattered little figure as well as the homely, freckled face. "Don't yuh get tired packin' them two big guns?" he asked with a broad smile. Jim Allen grinned good-naturedly at him, but made no reply. "Say, kid, why for do you pack them guns? There's some real bad men in this here town, and they might take you seriously and you'd get hurt," he warned, for he had sudden liking for this boy. "Maybe so," Allen said with another of his broad, loose grins. "No, don't go takin' the saddle off--'cause I figger I'll be leavin' in a hurry pronto." "Hell and damnation!" the hostler exclaimed.