“You’ve got a chance to try an’ finish what you 174 started in the Red Feather the day I got here, Carlisle,” said Rathburn in ringing tones. “If you think I’m yellow––draw!”
A second’s hesitation––two figures in identical postures under the morning sun––a vagrant breeze murmuring in the timber.
Then two movements, quick as lightning––too fast for the eye to follow––and the roar of guns.
Rathburn stepped back, his weapon smoking at his hip, as Carlisle swayed for a moment and then crumpled upon the ground. Rathburn quickly drew the piece of paper from his left pocket and the roll of bills from his right. He put the note with the bills and tossed the roll to Mannix. Then he stepped back to the doorway.
“Join your men, Mannix,” he said quietly.
Mannix thrust the money into a pocket and stood for several seconds looking directly into Rathburn’s eyes. A curious expression was on the deputy’s face, partly wonder, partly admiration, partly doubt. Then he turned abruptly upon his heel and walked back to the gaping men.
Sautee struggled to his feet. Rathburn motioned to him to join the others, and he staggered down to them.
Then Rathburn coolly lit a match and touched it to the fuse sticking out from the box of dynamite.
There was a wild yell of terror, and the mob tumbled down the trail as Rathburn ran for the trail above the powder house. The men had disappeared when he turned. His gun leaped into his hand and he fired––once, twice, three times––the fourth shot cut the burning fuse, and with a sharp intaking of breath, he ran for his horse, mounted, and rode into the timber along the trail.