Hamlin arose to his knees, and picked up the dropped rifle.

His lips were pressed tight; his eyes full of grim determination.

Why didn't Dupont fire?
Could it be he was unarmed?
Or was he hoping by delay to gain a closer shot?
Keen-eyed, resolute, the Sergeant determined to take no chances.

The rifle came to a level,--a spurt of flame, a sharp report, and the pony staggered to its knees, and sank, bearing its helpless burden with it.
Dupont let go his grip on the rein, and stood upright, clearly outlined against the white hillside, staring back toward the kneeling Sergeant, the faint smoke cloud whirling between.
"All right--damn you!--you've got me!" he said sullenly.
Hamlin never moved, except to snap out the emptied cartridge.
"Unbutton that coat," he commanded tersely.

"Now turn around.