Jackson Gilbert’s face contorted in pain as memories flashed through his mind. He saw Sam Beck fall to the sand, his bullet in him. Then he saw Mary Jane’s laughing face and it was replaced with a tombstone with her name on it. He relived in an instant his insane dash to the saloon in San Diego, the gun battle and the building that fell in on him. He remembered at the last minute, protected from the roof timber by the bar, the hidden passage. He had dragged his burned, shot up body out of there, to the sea and lost consciousness. “Jackson,” yelled the man, stepping quickly down from the saddle. There was gladness in the man’s tone. Did this man know him? Was it a man from his past? Or was it another enemy like the one he had just felled. Instinctively, his hand went to his holster and he drew the Colt revolver it contained. The man advanced, a troubled look suddenly on his face. Jackson Gilbert moved forward. Suddenly, the visions that had troubled him only in his sleep slipped into his mind. He was in the desert. A man with a bandaged head faced him with a drawn gun. The man had fired on him once, was going to kill him with.
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