"Stranger, again I tell you--don't mix here.

You've meddled enough.

Go your way now or--" "Listen!...

He stays." Absolute certainty, beyond any shadow of doubt, breathed in the rider's low voice.
"Who are you?
We are seven here." The rider dropped his sombrero and made a rapid movement, singular in that it left him somewhat crouched, arms bent and stiff, with the big black gun-sheaths swung round to the fore.
"LASSITER!" It was Venters's wondering, thrilling cry that bridged the fateful connection between the rider's singular position and the dreaded name.
Tull put out a groping hand.

The life of his eyes dulled to the gloom with which men of his fear saw the approach of death.