before the might of the Prussian Army had stood behind him. Now there was only himself. Never had he been threatened with a pistol, and terrible fury choked him. Yet at the same instant there swept through him the icy realization that he could die. That the man behind him would surely kill.
The baron had been given a choice. Could he lift the rifle, turn and cock and fire before the man behind him could fire?
"Put up your gun, Fulton!" The voice rang with the harshness of command. "Put up your gun and get back to your post."
Of them all, von Hallstatt was the most surprised, for Hans Kreuger had lifted himself to one elbow and in his hands he held the twin barrels of a shotgun, the muzzles pointed at Fulton.
The distance was scarcely twenty feet, the shotgun a short-barreled express gun.
Kreuger's face was pale and perspiring, but there was no doubt that he meant what he said.
"I have enough buckshot to cut you in two, Fulton," Kreuger said, "and nothing to lose."
The gunman's eyes seemed to change color. Or was it the light in the room? Irina, who was watching him, saw an ugly hatred come into those yellow eyes, but he eased the hammer back in place with elaborate care, and then he turned and started for the ladder. There he hesitated, stealing a glance over his shoulder, but the twin muzzles followed him relentlessly.
When Fulton had disappeared up the ladder, Kreuger lay back on his pallet, gasping hoarsely, his brow beaded with sweat.
Von Hallstatt remained standing by the door, staring out across the desert, his back to the room. The sun was going down. The day would soon be gone.
He stared blindly, conscious of it all but seeing nothing. He had been afraid. He, Frederick von Hallstatt, had been afraid.
He had known that surely as he stood there that unwashed hireling would kill him.
No command of his mattered here, no authority of position or personality stood between him and these men.
He hated them, he hated the wild, irresponsible freedom and independence there was in them all. He was used to subservience, to acceptance of his authority, his position.
That independence was in Shalako, Harris, Fulton ... all of them.
Buffalo Harris's frank, matter-of-fact, man-to-man talk had always offended him, yet it had taken a cocked gun in the hand of Bosky Fulton to make him aware of how little he mattered here. He, Frederick von Hallstatt, baron and general, could be shot down and killed as simply as any peasant.
Turning slowly, he threw a glance at his wounded aide. "Thank you, Hans," he said.
Taking up his rifle he went outside and returned to his position, and not until he was there, watching the desert once more, did he realize that for the first time he had called Kreuger by his given name.
And well he might, for Hans Kreuger had saved him from more than he knew. Possibly he had saved him from death, possibly from an exhibition of cowardice.
Had Kreuger not intervened, what would he have done? Would he have attempted to turn?
Or would he meekly have submitted?
Blindly, Frederick von Hallstatt stared out across the desert. For the first time in his entire life he did not know. For the first time, he was unsure.
Chapter Three.
When von Hallstatt had gone, nobody spoke for several minutes, then Buffalo Harris finished his coffee, and went to the door. He hesitated there, turned as if to speak, then ducked outside and was gone.
Count Henri's handsome features were expression less. He glanced at her. "I am sorry you are here, Irina." Then he went outside also.
Her decision, when it was made, was deliberate. And in the moment of deciding she knew it was a decision that should have been made before this. Gathering her skirts, she started for the door.
"Irina!" Laura caught at her arm. "Stay away from the door! What can you be thinking of?"
"I am going to the wagon," she said calmly, "for some food and ammunition."
"You will be killed!"
"I do not think so," she replied calmly, "I think they will want