"We'll give you three minutes," said the voice, "then if you don't come out, holding up your hands, we'll fire."
For what seemed a long time there was utter quiet, then bullets tore through the pine boards of the little shanty and Archie sprang to the window and fired. Curly was squatting on the floor. Archie fired again, and again, and yet again.
"I've only got one left," he said, turning from the window.
"All right, then we'll cave."
Curly got up, went to the door, flung it open and held up his hands. The mob cheered.
But Archie stayed. The officer called again, Curly called, the crowd called; then the shooting began again. Presently Archie appeared in the doorway and looked about with a white, defiant face. And there, before him, a rod away, stood Kouka, revolver in hand. He saw Archie, his brow wrinkled, and he smiled darkly.
Archie looked about with a white, defiant face
"You might as well--" he began.
Archie looked at him an instant, slowly raised his revolver above his head, lowered it in deliberate aim, fired, and Kouka fell to his knees, toppled forward with a groan and collapsed in a heap on the ground, dead.