The position of Dinsmore was an awkward one to fire from. Without lifting his gaze from the victim, he edged slowly round the bronco.
There was a shout of terror, a sudden rush of hurried feet. The stableboy had flung himself down on Wadley in such a way as to protect the prostrate body with his own.
"Git away from there!" ordered the outlaw, his face distorted with the lust for blood that comes to the man-killer.
"No. You've done enough harm. Let him alone!" cried the boy wildly.
The young fellow was gaunt and ragged. A thin beard straggled over the boyish face. The lips were bloodless, and the eyes filled with fear. But he made no move to scramble for safety. It was plain that in spite of his paralyzing horror he meant to stick where he was.
Dinsmore's lip curled cruelly. He hesitated. This boy was the only witness against him. Why not make a clean job of it and wipe him out too? He fired—and missed; Pete was not an expert left-hand shot.
"Look out, Pete. Men comin' down the road," called the other Dinsmore from the gate of the corral.
Pete looked and saw two riders approaching. It was too late now to make sure of Wadley or to silence the wrangler. He shoved his revolver back into its place and swung to the saddle.
"Was it you shot Wadley?" he asked his brother.
"Yep, an none too soon. He was reachin' for his six-shooter."