In that moment it had almost superhuman power.

If he must die, that was the way for him to die.

What else could be expected of Buck Duane?
He got to his knees and drew his gun.

With his swollen and almost useless hand he held what spare ammunition he had left.

He ought to creep out noiselessly to the edge of the willows, suddenly face his pursuers, then, while there was a beat left in his heart, kill, kill, kill.