Shoot!" At the sound of Dale's voice a terrible rage, such as had seized Owen at the moment he had stuck the rifle through the window, gripped him now, and he sat up, swaying from the strength of it.

He got to his feet, muttering insanely, and staggered toward the kitchen door--from the direction in which Dale's voice seemed to come.
It took him some time to reach the door, and when he did get there he was forced to lean against one of the jambs for support.
But he gained strength rapidly, and peering around the door jamb he was just in time to see Dale step on a chair and lift himself over the partition dividing the kitchen from the pantry.
Owen heard the commotion that followed Dale's disappearance over the partition; he heard the succeeding crashes and the scuffling.

Then came Dale's voice: "Damn you, you devil, I'll fix you!" Making queer sounds in his throat, Owen ran into the sitting-room where the weapons taken from the men had been piled.

They were not there.
He picked up the rifle.

By some peculiar irony the lock worked all right for him now, but a quick look told him there were no more cartridges in the magazine.