Jim slowly and thoughtfully slipped his revolver into its holster and dismounted. Langford, too, sprang lightly from his saddle.
Black had been waiting for this. His trained ear had no sooner caught the soft rubbing sound of the pistol slipping into its leathern case than he leaped to his feet and stretched out the crumpled arm with its deadly weapon pointing straight at the heart of Langford of the Three Bars.
“Now, damn you, we’re quits!” he cried, hoarsely.
There was not time for Jim to draw, but, agile as a cat, he threw himself against Black’s arm and the bullet went wild. For a moment the advantage was his, and he wrested the weapon from Black’s hand. It fell to the ground. The two men grappled. The struggle was short and fierce. Each strove with all the strength of his concentrated hate to keep the other’s hand from his belt.
When the feet of the wrestlers left the fallen weapon free, Langford, who had been waiting for this opportunity, sprang forward and seized it with a thrill of satisfaction. Command of the situation was once more his. But the revolver was empty, and he turned to throw himself into the struggle empty-handed. Jim would thus be given a chance to draw.
At that moment, Black twisted his arm free and his hand dropped like a flash to his belt, where there was a revolver that was loaded. Jim hugged him closely, but it was of no use now. The bullet tore its cruel way through his side. His arms relaxed their hold—he slipped—slowly—down—down. Black shook himself free of him impatiently and wheeled to meet his great enemy.
“Quits at last!” he said, with an ugly smile.
Quits indeed! For Jim, raising himself slightly, was able to draw at last; and even as he spoke, the outlaw fell.
“Jim, my boy,” said Langford, huskily. He was kneeling, Jim’s head in his arms.
“Well, Boss,” said Jim, trying to smile. His eyes were clear.