He had expected to find himself plugging away at a
flying target in the distance; instead, the black monster was rushing
straight for him, silently. Indeed, all that followed was in silence after
that first wild Indian yell from Ronicky Joe. His gun barked, but Black
Bart was running like a football player down a broken field, swerving here
and there with uncanny speed. Again, again, Joe missed, and then flung up
his arm toward the flying danger. But Black Bart shot from the ground to
make his kill. He could bring down the strongest bull in the herd. What was
the arm of a man to him? His snake-like head shot through that futile
guard; his teeth cut off the screams of Ronicky Joe. Down they went. The
gun flew from the hand of Ronicky; for an instant he struggled with hands
and writhing legs, and then the murderous teeth of Bart sank deeper, found
the life. The dead body was limp, but Bart, shaking his hold deeper to make
sure, glared across to the fallen master.
The third man had died for Grey Molly.
All this had happened in a second, and the body of Barry was still rolling
when a gun flashed in his hand, drawn while he tumbled.
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