"Come along, Casey," McHale urged. "We ain't got too much time."
"Time or not, we can't have Farwell hurt. You go. I'll be after you in a minute."
"If you stay we all stay," said McHale. "Let him take his chance. Come on!"
"Git, I tell you," Casey insisted. "I've got to keep him where he is till the first shot goes." He called out: "All right, Mr. Farwell. You don't need to come. I'll be there."
"That's not Kelly's voice," snapped Farwell. "What deviltry's going on here?"
By his voice, Casey guessed that he was advancing. He dropped the pretence as useless. "Get back, there!" he ordered sharply, but endeavouring to disguise his natural voice. "Get back to your shack, you, or I'll drill you!"
Farwell's response came with surprising promptness in the form of a revolver bullet that sang just above Casey's head. By the momentary flash of the weapon his big figure was just discernible standing bent forward, legs wide apart, tense and watchful.
As Casey's hand dropped to his automatic, McHale clutched his wrist. "Don't shoot!" he whispered.
"I'm not going to hit him," Casey replied. "I'm just going to make him stay where he is."
"Let me," said McHale, and fired as he spoke. Farwell's revolver answered. They emptied the guns in the darkness; but as one shot high by accident and the other low by design, no damage ensued.