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 Through this he fired, crouching low, his outline blurred to Barrett's sight. As he fired he scraped his hand through the dust again, adding to the obscuration of his Position.

While this impalpable barrier answered for the moment the purpose for which Findlay designed it in his crafty mind, it confused his own vision and aim as well. Barrett's first shots missed Findlay, and Findlay's shots went wildly down the road. Now Findlay, breaking from his cover of dust, dashed for his horse, firing back as he ran.

The man's admirable audacity and cunning moved in Barrett a feeling almost of admiration, but he did not spare his shots. Findlay fell within ten yards of his horse, his pistol whirling far out of his hand.

He lay a moment, face downward, as if dead. Barrett paused to reload, his last cartridge having been the one that told. As he was slipping a fresh charge into his cylinder, Findlay rose to his hands and knees and struggled on.

Barrett raised his pistol, held his aim for a moment, lowered it. He could not bring himself to slay a wounded, unarmed man, no matter how vicious, vengeful and unprincipled he might be.

Findlay crawled on, slower, slower; he weaved and staggered as if wounded in a vital spot. Barrett followed slowly. A little way from the horse Findlay sank down, his breast against the ground, his dark head lifted weakly, half turned, as if he expected the shot that would put a period to his pain. When he saw it did not come, he gathered his last strength, lifted him-