The Border Legion

"Pull your other gun--be ready," said he, swiftly. "But don't you

shoot once till I go down! ... Then do your best. ... Save the last

bullet for Joan--in case--"

"I promise," replied Cleve, steadily.

Then Kells drew a knife from a sheath at his belt. It had a long,

bright blade. Joan had seen him use it many a time round the camp-

fire. He slipped the blade up his sleeve, retaining the haft of the

knife in his hand. He did not speak another word. Nor did he glance

at Joan again. She had felt his gaze while she had embraced him, as

she raised her lips. That look had been his last. Then he went out.

Jim knelt beside the door, peering between post and curtain.

Joan staggered to the chink between the logs. She would see that

fight if it froze her blood--the very marrow of her bones.

The gamblers were intent upon their game. Not a dark face looked up

as Kells sauntered toward the table. Gulden sat with his back to the

door. There was a shaft of sunlight streaming in, and Kells blocked

it, sending a shadow over the bent heads of the gamesters. How

significant that shadow--a blackness barring gold! Still no one paid

any attention to Kells.

He stepped closer. Suddenly he leaped into swift and terrible

violence. Then with a lunge he drove the knife into Gulden's burly

neck.

Up heaved the giant, his mighty force overturning table and benches

and men. An awful boom, strangely distorted and split, burst from

him.

Then Kells blocked the door with a gun in each hand, but only the

one in his right hand spurted white and red. Instantly there

followed a mad scramble--hoarse yells, over which that awful roar of

Gulden's predominated--and the bang of guns. Clouds of white smoke

veiled the scene, and with every shot the veil grew denser. Red

flashes burst from the ground where men were down, and from each

side of Kells. His form seemed less instinct with force; it had

shortened; he was sagging. But at intervals the red spurt and report

of his gun showed he was fighting. Then a volley from one side made

him stagger against the door. The clear spang of a Winchester spoke

above the heavy boom of the guns.

Joan's eyesight recovered from its blur or else the haze of smoke

drifted, for she saw better. Gulden's actions fascinated her,

horrified her. He had evidently gone crazy. He groped about the

room, through the smoke, to and fro before the fighting, yelling

bandits, grasping with huge hands for something. His sense of

direction, his equilibrium, had become affected. His awful roar

still sounded above the din, but it was weakening. His giant's

strength was weakening. His legs bent and buckled under him. All at

once he whipped out his two big guns and began to fire as he

staggered--at random. He killed the wounded Blicky. In the melee he

ran against Jesse Smith and thrust both guns at him. Jesse saw the

peril and with a shriek he fired point-blank at Gulden. Then as

Gulden pulled triggers both men fell. But Gulden rose, bloody-

browed, bawling, still a terrible engine of destruction. He seemed

to glare in one direction and shoot in another. He pointed the guns

and apparently pulled the triggers long after the shots had all been

fired.