“They want me.”
“Wait a minute,” called the voice of Billy without.
“I'll open the door. By God, it's locked!”
“They want me—five feet nine or ten, slender, black hair and brown eyes”
“Barry!”
“Glass, I've come for you.”
“And I'm ready. And I'll say this”—he was standing, now, and his nervous hands were at his sides—“I been hungerin' and hopin' for this time to come. Barry, before you die, I want to thank you!”
“You've followed me like a skunk,” said Barry, “from the time you killed a hoss that had never done no harm to you. You got on my trail when I was livin' peaceable.”
There was a tremendous beating on the outer door of the other room, but Barry went on: “You took a gent that was livin' straight and you made a sneak and a crook out of him and sent him to double-cross me. You ain't worth livin'. You've spent your life huntin' men, and now you're at the end of your trail. Think it over. You're ready to kill ag'in, but are you ready to die?”
The little dusty man grew dustier still. His mouth worked.
“Damn you,” he whispered, and went for his gun.
It was out, his finger on the trigger, the barrel whipping into line, when the weapon in Barry's hand exploded. The sheriff spun on his heel and fell on his
