The three prostrate rustlers lay inert, their positions singularly tragic and settled.

The smoke again began to lift, to float out of the door and windows.

In another moment the big room seemed less hazy.
Wade rose, not without effort, and he had a gun in each hand.

Those hands were bloody; there was blood on his face, and his left shoulder was red.

He approached Belllounds.
Wade was terrible then--terrible with a ruthlessness that was no pretense.