The man stepped out of the door, and at the instant
Nyland saw him he was looking toward the rear of the house.
Nyland laughed--aloud, derisively. He did not want to shoot the man in
the back.
At Nyland's laugh the man wheeled, snapping a shot from his hip. He
was an instant too late, though, for with the man's wheeling movement
Nyland's gun barked death to him.
He staggered, the gun falling from his loosening fingers, his hands
dropped to his sides, and he sagged forward inertly, plunging into the
dust in front of the kitchen door.
Nyland ran forward, peered into the man's face, saw that no more
shooting on his part would be required, and then ran into the house to
search for Peggy.
She was not in the house--a glance into each room told Nyland that. He
went outside again, his face grim, and knelt beside the man.
The latter's wound was fatal--Nyland saw that plainly, for the bullet
had entered his breast just above the heart.
Nyland got some water, for an hour he worked over the man, not to save
his life, but to restore him to consciousness only long enough to
question him.
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