Dupont had whirled the girl’s horse to the left, and, with her body as a shield, was attempting to escape.  Already he was too far away to make a revolver shot safe.  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.  No shooting iron, hey!  That’s rather careless of a gun-man.”

He dropped his rifle, and strode forward revolver in hand, glancing curiously at the dead Indian as he passed.  A riata hung to the pommel of a saddle, and he paused to shake it loose, uncoiling the thin rope, but with watchful eyes constantly on his prisoner.  He felt no fear of Dupont, now that he knew the fellow to be unarmed, and the wounded Indian had vanished over the ridge.  Yet Dupont was a powerful man, and desperate enough to accept any chance.  Something in the sullen, glowering face confronting him awoke the Sergeant to caution.  He seemed to sense the plan of the other, and stopped suddenly, slipping the rope through his fingers.

He swung the coil about his head, measuring the distance, every faculty concentrated on the toss.  He had forgotten Hughes lying in the snow behind; he neither saw nor heard the fellow scramble weakly to his knees, revolver outstretched in a half-frozen hand.  And Hughes, his eyes already glazing in death, saw only the two figures.  In that moment hate triumphed over cowardice; he could not distinguish which was Dupont, which Hamlin.  In the madness of despair he cared little—­only he would kill some one before he died.  His weapon wavered frantically as he sought to aim, the man holding himself up by one hand.  Dupont, facing that way, saw this apparition, and leaped aside, stumbling over the dead pony.  Hughes’ weapon belched, and Hamlin, the lasso whirling above him in the air, pitched forward, and came crashing down into the snow.

It was all the work of an instant, a wild, confused bit, so rapidly enacted as to seem unreal even to the participants.  Hamlin lay motionless, barely conscious of living, yet unable to stir a muscle.  Hughes, screaming out one oath, sank back into a heap, his frozen fingers still gripping his smoking weapon.  Then Dupont rose cautiously to his knees, peering forth across the dead body of the pony.  The man was unnerved, unable at first to comprehend what had occurred.  He was saved as by a miracle, and his great form shook from head to foot.  Then, as his eyes rested on the outstretched body of the Sergeant, hate conquered every other feeling; he staggered to his feet, picked up the gun lying in the snow, walked across, and brutally kicked the prostrate form.  There was no response, no movement.