He was an instant too late, though, for with the man's wheeling movement Nyland's gun barked death to him.
He staggered, the gun falling from his loosening fingers, his hands dropped to his sides, and he sagged forward inertly, plunging into the dust in front of the kitchen door.
Nyland ran forward, peered into the man's face, saw that no more shooting on his part would be required, and then ran into the house to search for Peggy.
She was not in the house--a glance into each room told Nyland that.

He went outside again, his face grim, and knelt beside the man.
The latter's wound was fatal--Nyland saw that plainly, for the bullet had entered his breast just above the heart.
Nyland got some water, for an hour he worked over the man, not to save his life, but to restore him to consciousness only long enough to question him.
And at last his efforts were rewarded: the man opened his eyes, and they were swimming with the calm light of reason.

He smiled faintly at Nyland.
"Got me," he said.

"Well, I don't care a whole lot.

There's just one thing that's been botherin' me since you come.