Marston’s heart lost a beat. He felt rather than saw the figure of the man at his side grow tense as it crouched. Steel flashed in the moonlight. The preacher struck at a hair-matted wrist as the gun roared.
The singer stopped in his tracks. With incredible quickness he dragged out a revolver and fired. The chaplain thrust Dutch from him and stepped back into the road out of the direct line of fire.
The boom of the forty-fives seemed continuous while the short sharp flashes stabbed the darkness.
A man groaned and clutched at his breast. He sank down, still firing. On his knees, supporting the weight of his body with the palm of his hand thrust against the ground, Dutch emptied his revolver, ferocious as a wounded grizzly. From his throat there issued a sound that was half a sob and half a snarl of rage.
The thunder of the guns died. The singer moved forward, warily, his gaze fastened on the huge huddled figure slowly sinking lower. One glance had been enough to tell him that Marston was not an enemy. Therefore he concentrated his attention on the centre of danger.
Marston ran to the fallen man and knelt down beside him. He tore open the coat and vest. A single look was sufficient. Three bullets had torn into the great barrel-like trunk of his body. One had pierced the right lung. A second had struck just below the heart. The third had raked from right to left through the stomach.
“Take my boots off,” gasped the desperado.
The chaplain knew that Dutch was aware he had been mortally wounded. This request showed it. The Western gunman wanted always to be without his boots on when he died.
Father Marston eased his head while Hugh McClintock removed the boots.
A gargoyle grin was on the face of the bad man. He meant to “die game,” after the manner of his kind.