He pulled a pair of revolvers from his belt.
Back went the hammers.
His long arms shot out; the polished barrels of the weapons flashed crimson bright in the chemical light; his steady fingers pulled the triggers.
Crack, crack! two whip-like reports rang out.
Shrieks of mortal agony went up, and Frank cried:
“A hit, a double hit.”
And then three gleaming rifle barrels were pointed at him from the midst of the combatants, the muzzles frowning darkly upon him.
Frank saw them.
He smiled to himself.
“Fire!” he cried, scornfully.