He never said a word, but just went for me.
In an instant my revolver was knocked out of my hand, and we, locked in each other’s arms, went rolling down the stoop.
Then I thought he had me.
He was trying to get at his pistol—I had no other weapon than the one I had lost.
Everything seemed to depend then upon who happened to be the under dog.
Well, the under dog that time happened to be my humble self.
“I’ll never be taken alive,” he breathed, half rising and planting his knee on my breast.
I saw the glitter of his revolver. I saw him raise it—heard the cock click, when suddenly a firm voice now grown familiar to me spoke.
“Don’t yer do it, boss. Drop that shooter or you’re a dead duck. One—two——”
The revolver went ringing to the pavement, and through the gate a man came dashing with a cocked revolver in each hand. By that I would have known him if by nothing else.