June heard herself scream. A shot rang out. The man who had rescued her crumpled up and went down. In that horrified moment she knew he was Bob Dillon.
CHAPTER XLIII
NOT EVEN POWDER-BURNT
Houck stood over the prostrate man, the smoking revolver in his hand, on his lips a cruel twist and in his throat a wolfish snarl.
June, watching him with eyes held in a fascination of terror, felt that at any moment he might begin pumping shots into the supine body. She shook off the palsy that held her and almost hurled her soft young body at him.
“Don’t!” she begged. “Don’t!” Cold fingers clutched at his wrist, dragged down the barrel of the forty-five.
“He had it comin’. He was askin’ for it,” the outlaw said. He spoke huskily, still looking down at the crumpled figure.
The girl felt in him the slackness of indecision. Should he shoot again and make sure? Or let the thing go as it was? In an instant he would have made up his mind.