and fired a rifle from his hip—and unaimed.
Sam shot from a crouch. The slug struck the Malay in the chest, sending him sprawling. With a yowl the tall black leapt down and fled back on the camel trail. He went straight into the hands of police, who would have use for him later. He would lead them to Trenholm's caches of loot.
The camels came right up to him. Sam shot a second time, winging the second Malay, but feeling the hot crease of a bullet across his own shoulder-blades. Trenholm had shot!
Sam saw a horrible thing. The bearded bushranger had lifted a limp bundle, using it as a shield as he maneuvered for a better aimed shot down at Sam. The latter dodged as the shot blazed.
The limp figure there, held against Trenholm's chest, was the unconscious body of Claire Smith!
For a precious second the American could not fire; and with a maniacal snarl of triumph Trenholm threw down a third time.
Sam's left leg went out from under him. By the agonizing pain he suspected his kneecap was shattered. On the way to the ground, however, he loosed his own delayed bullet, pumping it straight into the chest of the camel, just inside the left foreleg.
The beast gasped piteously and slumped to his knees. Two human bodies went plunging from the saddle—the second of these the mad bushranger, Paxton Trenholm.
He landed heavily on his side, with an explosive grunt. Disregarding the agony in his leg, Sam crawled across the two yards that separated them, and threw himself upon the giant quarry, striking savagely down with his revolver barrel, half-stunning Trenholm who roared with rage and pain and turned to grapple.
The huge arms clutched Sam Varney, who realized the folly of holding his fire and grappling with this madman while disabled. Now Sam strove for just one thing, a chance to shoot. He still had the revolver, but his arms were pinioned, and the great blackbeard was crushing his ribs inward—
Having no other weapon now, Sam butted with his head. Trenholm cursed savagely, crazily—but for a split second his hugging arms loosened a trifle as he spat forth a tooth.
Sam's chance! With a wrenching jerk he tore loose his right arm. Slam! Slam! Two heavy slugs tore into the bushranger's torso.
A shuddering shriek cleft his throat. He jerked backward, thrashing, flinging Sam from him as if the Yank had been a straw man. Incredulity and terror suddenly cleared the brain of Trenholm.
"You've—murdered me!" he shrieked. Then bloody froth came to choke his words.
"Not murder—vengeance!" said Varney, from between taut lips set against his own overbearing pain.
That was the moment when the sobbing Elinor Mathes ran to him. Sam thrust her away.
"See to Claire," he bade in a croaking voice. He lifted the revolver and fired, as a half-dozen fleeing blackfellows came toward them.
But these aborigines sought only to escape. They divided, and passed him and the two girls. That moment Trenholm's back arched, and the death rattle sounded in his throat. He slumped—and the man who may have been the
