"I thought——" Nor did he complete that which he had been about to say.
The door was thrust wide with a jolt. There was the swift clash of a knife ripping the cotton window behind him. Then came an incredulous ejaculation, as two guns were held leveled in the doorway.
"God! Murray McTavish!"
The movements of those moments were something electrical. Everything seemed to happen at once. Every man playing his little part in the drama of it was accustomed to think and act in the moment of emergency. These men owed their present existence to their capacity for survival where danger was ever lurking.
Seconds counted on the fingers on one hand were sufficient to decide the issue. A shot sung in through the uncovered window which carried back no "spat" to the man who fired it. But the eyes which had guided it beheld the half-breed at the counter sprawl across the account book which had yielded him so much satisfaction. Almost at the instant of his fall a lean, agile, dusky, disreputable figure leaped into the room through the aperture which his knife had freed of its covering.
Kars in the doorway had been no less swift. His automatic spoke, but it spoke no quicker than a similar weapon in the hands of Murray McTavish.
It was a situation pregnant with possibilities. The bulky body of the trader of Fort Mowbray had moved with the quickness, the agility of lightning. His glass had dropped to the filthy floor with a crash, and its place in his hand had been taken by a pistol in the twinkle of an eye. He was on his feet, and had hurled his bullet at the figure in the doorway in the space of time elapsing between John Kars' startled exclamation and the discharge of his weapon, which had been almost on the instant.
With deadly purpose and skill Murray had taken no aim. He had fired for the pit of the stomach with the instinct of the gunman. Perhaps it was the haste, perhaps the whisky had left its effect on him. His shot tore its way through Kars' pea-jacket, grazing the soft flesh of his side below his ribs. The second and third shots, as the automatic did its work, were even less successful. There was no fourth shot, for the weapon dropped from Murray's nerveless hand as Kars' single shot tore through his adversary's extended arm and shattered the bones.
The injured man promptly sought to recover his weapon with the other hand. But no chance remained. A dusky figure leaped upon his back from behind, and the dull gleam of a long knife flourished in the lamplight.
Then came Kars' fierce tones.