But they had their worry for nothing, for when they came in sight of the crossroads and the dingy and solitary little shop which stood there, they saw Nick in front, sitting on a keg, smoking and talking with a number of bystanders. “Where’s Clancy, Nick?” asked Chick, bringing the Red Spider to a halt. “Inside, handcuffed to an anvil. It was hard to do anything with him without killing him--and I didn’t want to do that.” “Did he make you much trouble?” asked Patsy. “Some. He’s one of that Montana clique, and they never seem to know when they’re downed. Clancy is beginning to scent the situation, though, for he hasn’t made much noise during the last few minutes. He was a pal of Ramsay’s, and you know what a time we had bagging him.” CHAPTER XXVII. THE LAST OF THE SWINDLERS. Clancy had fought every step of the way through the woods to the blacksmith shop. Every convenient tree trunk, every rise of ground, and every rock which he encountered in the course of his retreat was taken advantage of and used as a temporary breastwork. The fact that no serious injuries resulted from the shooting proves how wary the men were. Nick emptied his repeater at about the identical time Clancy emptied his revolvers. Clancy saw this, and gave vent to a mocking laugh. “It’s anybody’s fight yet!” he yelled. No longer fearing to show himself, he turned and made straight through the timber, coming out on the road in the vicinity of the blacksmith shop. Coming upon this blacksmith shop was an entirely unexpected event, but it was one of which Clancy did not fail to take instant advantage. There was only one man in the shop at the time Clancy made his advent on the scene--one man and the red-headed boy before mentioned. The boy was having the horse shod, and just before he went to work on the horse the smith had been heating a crowbar for the purpose of repointing it. The crowbar was still in the fire, one end cool, but the other sizzling hot. The blacksmith looked up as Clancy burst in. With a quick blow, Clancy knocked him out of the way, and looked around for a weapon. The crowbar was prominently in his view, and he caught it out of the fire. Nick was in the door as Clancy possessed himself of the bar. “I’ll have you!” roared the Montana man. “My second try at you won’t end like the first.” “This is your third attempt on my life, Clancy,” returned Nick, springing forward and watching the Westerner warily. “The third time?” repeated Clancy, resting the red-hot end of the bar for an instant on the anvil. “My name’s Nick Carter, and----” A torrent of invectives burst from the robber’s lips. “I’ll have you now,” he yelled. “I’ll strike a blow for Ramsay as well as for myself!” He jumped through the door of the shop, whirling the bar about his head in a livid circle. Straight toward Nick he rushed, shouting his imprecations and vowing that he’d have the detective’s life. Nick waited coolly, the rifle in his hand.