Texas did not wince as the heavy bullet struck him, but his face went white. He had been a principal in more than one shooting affray, and experience had taught him the value of instantaneous action. And so, even with the stinging pain in his left shoulder, his hand swept his gun lightly upward, and before it had reached a level he had begun to pull the trigger. But to his astonishment only the metallic click, click of the hammer striking the steel of the cylinder rewarded his efforts. Once, twice, thrice; so rapidly that the metallic clicks blended.
And now he saw why he was to meet his death at the muzzle of Buck's gun. Fearing him, Jim Webster had removed the cartridges from his weapon before returning it to him that morning. He had committed a fatal error in not examining it after he had received it from Webster's hand. The Law, in judging him, had removed his chance of life.
But he smiled with bitter irony into Buck's eyes as the latter, still snarling and relentless, deliberately shot again; once, twice.
According to the ancient custom—which has many champions—and to the conventions—which are not to be violated with impunity—Texas should have recovered from his wounds to return to Mary Jane and Socorro. No narrative is complete without the entire vindication of the brave and the triumph of the honorable. But to the chronicler belongs only the simple task of true and conscientious record.
Therefore is the end written thus:
Came to Jim Webster's home in Socorro a week later a babbler from San Marcial, who told a tale:
"There was a man by the name of Texas Rankin came down to San Marcial last week an' went gunnin' for Buck Reible. Quickest thing you ever saw. Buck peppered him so fast you couldn't count; an' I'm told Texas wasn't no slouch with a gun, either."
"Dead?" questioned Webster.
"As a door nail," returned the babbler.