"Take that!" the gambler cut in sharply. His gun leaped out with flame at its end; and the roar, fire, bullet, and all seemed to bury in the lumberman's body. A second shot and a third did the same—and Trimmer went down like a log.
His gun had fallen from his hand. With all his brute vitality he crawled to take it up. One of the bullets had pierced his heart, but yet he would not die.
McCoppet had snatched up a chair and with it he beat out the window. Then Trimmer's gun crashed tremendously—and Opal sank against the sill.
He faced his man. A ghastly pallor spread upon his countenance. He went down slowly, like a man of melting snow, his cigar still hanging on his lip.
He saw the lumberman shiver. But the fellow crowded his cigar stump in his mouth, with fire and all, and chewed it up as he was dying.
"Good shot," said McCoppet faintly. His head went forward on his breast and he crumpled on the floor.
CHAPTER XLVI
WASTED TIME
Van was conveyed to Mrs. Dick's. The fever attacked him in his helplessness and delirium claimed him for its own. He glided from unconsciousness into a wandering state of mind before the hour of noon.