From the two men broke startled oaths. The ratty little Knute saw the twinkle in Robinson’s eye, and cried out shrilly:
“He’s stringin’ us, Matt! Somethin’ fishy about this guy——”
Robinson was in the center of the road, Brady before him, Knute off to his left. He appeared entirely careless and off guard, cigarette between his fingers.
“Tryin’ to ride me, are ye?” Brady queried. “Want trouble, do ye?”
“I’d welcome it,” said Robinson.
“Then take it——”
Brady’s gun flashed up. The miracle happened; Robinson’s six-shooter seemed to leap out of itself, jump into his hand, spit fire. The two guns spoke almost together. Brady swayed in the saddle, clutched at the pommel, and rolled down.
But it had been a murder trap. Robinson had no chance whatever. Even as he fired, he saw from, the corner of his eye that Knute, to the left, was tugging at a gun. He saw the gun come up, and tried to swing himself around in time. Too late! The gun in the hand of ratty little Knute belched once.
Incredulously, bewildered, deeming himself already a dead man—-Robinson found himself unharmed. Nor was he given any chance to shoot. The whole affair had passed in the fraction of a second; Matt Brady’s vicious attack and death, the third shot echoing treacherously from the side, almost with the first two. As he turned to the assassin, Robinson was amazed to see Knute sink forward, the weapon falling from his hand.
Knute said no word, but followed his gun to the dirt. He lay motionless, one spur in the stirrup; a splotch of red grew upon his chest. He had been shot—-how? Not by himself; nor by Robinson.