Douglas lunged toward his own gun—and tripped over the forgotten low chair. Marion sprang between him and the menacing muzzles which jerked to cover him anew.
“Don’t you!” she screamed. “Don’t you dast shoot!”
The clatter of the overturned chair and the thump of a solid blow terminated her words. Douglas, unable to regain his balance, had pitched headlong against the stove. The impact dazed him. He fumbled, strove to rise on legs that seemed useless.
Snake’s venomous face split in a lethal grin. With a hissing laugh he sidestepped, jumped forward, snapped the gun-stock to his shoulder.
Crash!
Buckshot cannoned toward the groggy man reeling up from the floor.
But the frightful charge of leaden death missed. With the muzzle less than six feet from its victim—it missed. It smashed through a window. The bellowing shock of the discharge roared out into the silent night, reverberating far along the crag-girt Traps.
Marion had leaped again. With the lightning speed of a maddened catamount she had struck at the gun, knocking it aside just as the hammer fell. Now she was gripping the twin barrels in both her strong young hands, wrenching and yanking in a furious effort to wrest the weapon from its owner.
“Leggo!” snarled Snake. “Leggo, ye red cat!”
“I won’t—I got you now—Douglas!—Git him!”