and, ranging one arm around his enemy's bull neck, strove with the other
to wrest the gun from his grasp. It was a feat however, more easily
imagined than accomplished--to disarm a powerful, active man. The tense
fingers tightened immediately upon the weapon and resisted to their
uttermost. Slavin and Redmond both had their side-arms drawn now, but
they were afraid to use them, on Yorke's account. The combatants were
whirling giddily to and fro, the muzzle of the gun describing every point
of the compass.

Taking a risky chance, Slavin, watching his opportunity suddenly closed
with the struggling men and, raising his arm brought the barrel of his
heavy Colt's .45 smashing down on the knuckles of the crazed man's
gun-hand. Instantaneously the latter's weapon dropped to the floor.

Bang! The cocked hammer discharged one chamber--the bullet ricocheting
off the brass bar-rail deflected through a cluster of glasses and
bottles, smashing them and a long saloon-mirror into a myriad splinters.
But few of the company there escaped the deadly flying glass, as
badly-gashed faces immediately testified. It all happened in quicker
time than it takes to relate.

"'Crown' him!" gasped Yorke, still grimly hanging onto his man, "'Crown'
the ---- good and hard!"

Redmond sprang forward, grasping a small, shot-loaded police "billy," but
Slavin interposed a huge arm.

"Nay!" he said sharply, and with curious eagerness, "Du not 'chrown' um
bhoy! lave um tu me!" And he grasped one of the big, struggling man's
wrists firmly in a vise-like grip. "Leggo, Yorkey!"