The girl clung the tighter to him. "No, Dave, no! It's been … awful."
The outlaw drew his long-barreled six-shooter, still circling the group.
He could not fire without running a risk of hitting Joyce.
"Hidin' behind a woman, are you?" he taunted, and again flung the epithet men will not tolerate.
At any moment he might fire. Dave caught the wrists of the girl, dragged them down from his neck, and flung her roughly from him to the ground. He pulled out his little bulldog.
Doble fired and Dave fell. The outlaw moved cautiously closer, exultant at his marksmanship. His enemy lay still, the pistol in his hand. Apparently Sanders had been killed at the first shot.
"Come to git me with that popgun, did you? Hmp! Fat chance." The bad man fired again, still approaching very carefully.
Round the corner of the house a man had come. He spoke quickly. "Turn yore gun this way, Dug."
It was Shorty. His revolver flashed at the same instant. Doble staggered, steadied himself, and fired.
The forty-fives roared. Yellow flames and smoke spurted. The bulldog barked. Dave's parlor toy had come into action.
Out of the battle Shorty and Sanders came erect and uninjured. Doble was lying on the ground, his revolver smoking a foot or two from the twitching, outstretched hand.