Sandy and Mac McGill had turned into the yard and were walking slowly toward them. The hostler rightly read the look on their faces and seized Allen by the arm. "Quick, kid, get into the barn! Them devils has lost a peck of trouble and is huntin' for it," he said hurriedly. Jim Allen turned and shook off the hostler's detaining hand. "Yuh fool, they'll kill you!" the hostler cried in warning. Then he thrilled, as he caught sight of the yellow flare in Allen's eyes and heard his low laugh, as he walked forward to meet the twins on stiff legs, like a fighting wolf. The hostler stared with open mouth; he had heard tales about those yellow, flaring eyes, and knew the owner of them. "Gosh, the kid's the Wolf!" he exclaimed. He crouched down against the barn and watched and waited. He saw Allen, hands swinging close to his guns, body loose and swaying, head straight for the twins, who, moving like two machines and side by side, advanced to meet him. When a scant ten feet separated them, they halted. They stood there, silent, staring, for a time that seemed to the hostler to be hours. "Gents, I'm countin' three," Allen said softly. At that all three went for their guns. Six big Colts roared together. The barn walls caught and tossed back the echoes of the reports. As quickly as the uproar started, it hushed. Mac McGill's hands had flashed faster than the eye could follow to the butts of his black-handled Colts. But, fast as he was, he was not fast enough. Before his guns came level, destruction smashed against his chest. Both of his guns exploded and the bullets sent up a shower of gravel at Allen's feet. Then he staggered and sank to the ground. Desperately he raised himself and fired again, then when another slug tore through his neck, he slumped back and lay still. Sandy McGill's speed had been the equal of Allen's, but as the outlaw went for his guns, he had ducked and leaped to one side. One of McGill's bullets tore through Allen's right sleeve, the other creased him on the side of the head. Allen's first shot took Sandy in the pit of the stomach; he staggered backward, and again his guns exploded. But his eyes were dimming and could not follow the figure that leaped first to one side and then to the other. Again and again his guns roared; a continuous stream of fire flashed from the barrels. But each time they roared and missed, a heavy slug tore into his body. At last, his body sagged and crushed to the ground. He was dead on his feet before he fell. Silence settled over everything. The Wolf stood there peering through the smoke, then he commenced to laugh--strange laughter that bit into the hostler's ears and left him shuddering--mocking yet mirthless. Slowly the hostler recovered his senses. He saw Allen stuff fresh shells into his guns, then drop them into the holsters. After that he walked quickly to Honeyboy, tightened the cinch, swung into the saddle, and vanished out the back of the livery stable.