The settler, unsuspecting treachery, stepped out upon the porch, his countenance expressing his anxiety. Then Thompson nudged Jack Colton with his elbow, as he loosened his hold.
What followed was quick as thought. A bright flash—a sharp report—a death-cry of intense agony—a heavy fall upon the broad stone steps.
Then Colton, still clutching the smoking pistol, sprung forward and seizing his brother pushed him forcibly back into the building, in a moment closing the heavy oaken door and dropping the stout bars into place.
Inside the brothers—outside, what? A writhing, bleeding body from which the life was rapidly ebbing. Thompson the outlaw had been outwitted, and paid the penalty with his life!
As he gave Colton the signal that the time had come for his bloody deed, the young man turned his pistol against his breast and fired. With bullet-pierced breast, the outlaw fell, dying.
Henry Colton was thunderstruck. At first he believed that the assault was upon him, but when his brother closed and barred the door, with that horrible groaning outside, an inkling of the truth flashed upon his mind.
“What is this—what do you mean, Jack?” he gasped, bewildered.
“It means that I have saved your life, Henry, for the present. But come—is the house well secured? We’ll have a desperate fight on our hands before many minutes.”
“Yes—all is secure. But explain—I don’t understand. You are not hurt—that man lied?”
“No, I am well. That was part of a plot. But first—out with the light, then go and tell your wife that you are safe. Tell her that there is no real danger, for we can easily beat them off until day, and they’ll not dare stay longer, for fear of the neighbors. Go now—then hasten back here.”