"They've got axes," hoarsely shouted another voice. "Shove the counter ag'in' the door."
"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.
His fall broke the spell. Even Blue, like the gunman he was, had paused to watch Jorth in his last mortal action. Jorth's followers began to draw and shoot. Jean saw Blue's return fire bring down a huge man, who fell across Jorth's body. Then Jean, quick as the thought that actuated him, raised his rifle and shot at the big lamp. It burst in a flare. It crashed to the floor. Darkness followed--a blank, thick, enveloping mantle. Then red flashes of guns emphasized the blackness.
Inside the store there broke loose a pandemonium of shots, yells, curses, and thudding boots. Jean shoved his rifle barrel inside the door and, holding it low down, he moved it to and fro while he worked lever and trigger until the magazine was empty. Then, drawing his six-shooter, he emptied that. A roar of rifles from the front of the store told Jean that his comrades had entered the fray. Bullets zipped through the door he had broken. Jean ran swiftly round the corner, taking care to sheer off a little to the left, and when he got clear of the building he saw a line of flashes in the middle of the road. Blaisdell and the others were firing into the door of the store. With nimble fingers Jean reloaded his rifle. Then swiftly he ran across the road and down to get behind his comrades. Their shooting had slackened. Jean saw dark forms coming his way.
"Hello, Blaisdell!" he called, warningly.
"That y'u, Jean?" returned the rancher, looming up. "Wal, we wasn't worried aboot y'u."
"Blue?" queried Jean, sharply.
A little, dark figure shuffled past Jean. "Howdy, Jean!" said Blue, dryly. "Y'u shore did your part. Reckon I'll need to be tied up, but I ain't hurt much."
"Colmor's hit," called the voice of Gordon, a few yards distant.
"Help me, somebody!"
Jean ran to help Gordon uphold the swaying Colmor. "Are you hurt-bad?" asked Jean, anxiously. The young man's head rolled and hung. He was breathing hard and did not reply. They had almost to carry him.
"Come on, men!" called Blaisdell, turning back toward the others who were still firing. "We'll let well enough alone. . . . Fredericks, y'u an' Bill help me find the body of the old man. It's heah somewhere."
Farther on down the road the searchers stumbled over Gaston Isbel.
They picked him up and followed Jean and Gordon, who were supporting the wounded Colmor. Jean looked back to see Blue dragging himself along in the rear. It was too dark to see distinctly; nevertheless, Jean got the impression that Blue was more severely wounded than he had claimed to be. The distance to Meeker's cabin was not far, but it took what Jean felt to be a long and anxious time to get there.
Colmor apparently rallied somewhat. When this procession entered Meeker's yard, Blue was lagging behind.
"Blue, how air y'u? " called Blaisdell, with concern.
"Wal, I got--my boots--on--anyhow," replied Blue, huskily.
He lurched into the yard and slid down on the grass and stretched out.
"Man! Y'u're hurt bad!" exclaimed Blaisdell. The others halted in their slow march and, as if by tacit, unspoken word, lowered the body of Isbel to the ground. Then Blaisdell knelt beside Blue. Jean left Colmor to Gordon and hurried to peer down into Blue's dim face.
"No, I ain't--hurt," said Blue, in a much weaker voice. I'm--jest killed! . . . It was Queen! . . . Y'u all heerd me--Queen was--only bad man in that lot. I knowed it. . . . I could--hev killed him. . . .
But I was--after Lee Jorth an' his brothers. . . ."
Blue's voice failed there.
"Wal!" ejaculated Blaisdell.
"Shore was funny--Jorth's face--when I said--King Fisher," whispered Blue. "Funnier--when I bored--him through. . . . But it--was--Queen--"
His whisper died away.
"Blue!" called Blaisdell, sharply. Receiving no answer, he bent lower in the starlight and placed a hand upon the man's breast.
"Wal, he's gone. . . . I wonder if he really was the old Texas King Fisher. No one would ever believe it. . . . But if he killed the Jorths, I'll shore believe him.