It really began to look as though Galloway had played
out his string.
They were firing from the mountainside now, the bullets thus far flying
wild of their rushing target. Norton shook his head and urged his
horse to fresh endeavor. In a moment he would be fairly between
Galloway and Galloway's last chance. His eye picked out the spot where
he would dismount at that moment, a tumble of big boulders. He would
swing down so that they would be between him and the mountain, so that
nothing but moonlit open space lay between him and Jim Galloway.
While rifles cracked and spat fire and sprayed lead over him and about
him he rode the last fifty yards. He reached the boulders, set his
horse up, threw himself from the saddle, and with his back to the rock,
his face toward Galloway, he lifted his rifle. Galloway, almost at the
same instant, jerked in his own horse. He was so close that Norton
caught his cry of rage.
"Hands up, Galloway!" cried the sheriff. "Hands up or I'll drop you."
But at last Galloway had come out into the open; at last there was no
subterfuge to stand forth at his need; at last, gambler that he was, he
accepted the even break of man to man. As Norton's voice rang out
Galloway fired.
He shot twice before Norton pulled the trigger. Norton shot but the
once.
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