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 climbed to the top near Angus Valorous, and fired off his bulldog into the dust the flying men had raised, putting a period by this defiant deed to the battle between railroad and range that had been hovering in dark imminence over the head of McPacken for so many years.

Cal Withers was the man whom retribution had laid hold of and thrown down in the dust. There was a black wound in his forehead, much blood on his face. They bent over him, lifted his arms, moved his head, and pronounced him dead. Tom Laylander came from his place on the gatepost. He knew more about men who met the mischance of fight. He said Withers was alive.

They picked him up and carried him to the hotel, and laid him on the sofa in the parlor. He was dusty, grisly, senseless and limp; a shudderful and fearful thing to see.