In that fleeting time a horde of impossibilities raced through his brain. The downfall that had haunted him for years was at hand.
Fear of death was beyond his comprehension, but the sting of defeat was agonizing.
Then, glaring defiance and hatred, he whirled about and fled into the church, and there he leaped toward the altar. With a feline bound the big revenue detective was through the door and into the church after him.
And now the old man had gained the pulpit itself, and was reaching for the rifle he had left leaning against the wall.
Through the little church an ear-splitting crash rang out that fairly rocked the walls!
In the pulpit the war-scarred moonshiner drew gently, deliberately backward, leaving the rifle untouched. Straightening up with strange majesty, he turned half around, and the malevolence melted away and left his face empty of all hatred.
His eyes grew very soft, gazing upward at something beyond this world; his lips moved in soundless speech.
Then, abruptly, his legs crumpled beneath him. He sagged and swayed for an instant; there was a ghastly, ragged, spongy gap between his shoulders.
Then, with a crash, the mighty form sank to the altar, and lay there motionless upon its back, legs close together, the arms stretched straight outward from the body.
Burton mopped his wet features and eyed his awful work without emotion.