He made no effort to escape from the next bullet, but stood looking down at his broken wrist; horror for the moment gave him a dignity oddly out of place with his usual appearance.

He alone in all the room was moveless.
The crowd, undecided for an instant, broke for the doors at the first shot; Pierre le Rouge pitched to the floor as Diaz leaped forward, the revolver in either hand spitting lead and fire.
It was no bullet that downed Pierre but his own cunning.

He broke his fall with an outstretched left hand, while the bullets of Diaz pumped into the void space which his body had filled a moment before.
Lying there at ease, he leveled the revolver, grinning with the mirthless lust of battle, and fired over the top of the table.

The guns dropped from the hands of huge Diaz.

He caught at his throat and staggered back the full length of the room, crashing against the wall.
When he pitched forward on his face he was dead before he struck the floor.
Pierre, now Red Pierre, indeed, rose and ran to the fallen man, and, looking at the bulk of the giant, he wondered with a cold heart.