“No!” thundered a voice of authority that denoted terror as well. “Let them come in. Pull your guns an’ take to cover!”
“They ain’t comin’ in,” was the hoarse reply. “They’ll shoot in on us from the dark.”
“Put out the lamp!” yelled another.
Jean’s third heavy swing caved in part of the upper half of the door. Shouts and curses intermingled with the sliding of benches across the floor and the hard shuffle of boots. This confusion seemed to be split and silenced by a piercing yell, of different caliber, of terrible meaning. It stayed Jean’s swing—caused him to drop the ax and snatch up his rifle.
“DON’T ANYBODY MOVE!”
Like a steel whip this voice cut the silence. It belonged to Blue. Jean swiftly bent to put his eye to a crack in the door. Most of those visible seemed to have been frozen into unnatural positions. Jorth stood rather in front of his men, hatless and coatless, one arm outstretched, and his dark profile set toward a little man just inside the door. This man was Blue. Jean needed only one flashing look at Blue’s face, at his leveled, quivering guns, to understand why he had chosen this trick.
“Who’re—you?” demanded Jorth, in husky pants.
“Reckon I’m Isbel’s right-hand man,” came the biting reply. “Once tolerable well known in Texas.... KING FISHER!”
The name must have been a guarantee of death. Jorth recognized this outlaw and realized his own fate. In the lamplight his face turned a pale greenish white. His outstretched hand began to quiver down.
Blue’s left gun seemed to leap up and flash red and explode. Several heavy reports merged almost as one. Jorth’s arm jerked limply, flinging his gun. And his body sagged in the middle. His hands fluttered like crippled wings and found their way to his abdomen. His death-pale face never changed its set look nor position toward Blue. But his gasping utterance was one of horrible mortal fury and terror. Then he began to sway, still with that strange, rigid set of his face toward his slayer, until he fell.