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 might have sent the two ruffians who had provoked a quarrel to plead an excuse for killing him, but the cattlemen were not in on this. There was not even a cowboy in town, except those who might be lying in the stupor of whisky in some brothel, or stretched on the floor of a saloon.

They began shooting into the car again, probably to find out if he was still alive, or to provoke him to useless waste of his ammunition. He did not reply, lying still behind the bales of hay, eye to the crack he had made commanding the depot.

Presently he heard them at the end of the car, behind him, talking about smoking him out. There was stiff objection to this procedure in the voice of the liveryman, to whom the hay belonged. Then a sly movement along the side, somebody sneaking up with what design he did not know.

The door moved, grating noisily on its rusty bearings. They were planning to shut him in, the purpose of the maneuver not plain to Dunham, as he could not understand how they expected to get him any sooner by that. He threw a shot through the door as it slid forward, to let them know he was still up and coming, then tumbled a bale of hay in position to block the closing of his precious airhole. The activity outside stopped suddenly, and the genius of that enterprise made a hurried retreat.

Dunham's throat was as dry as if he had been eating the rough brittle forage that formed his defense. If they shut him in, the torture of his situation would soon become past human fortitude to endure. Perhaps