|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 41
For a little they sat staring into each other's eyes, the distance of
ten steps between them, their right hands idle while their left hands
upon twitching reins curbed the impatience of two mettled horses. As
was usual their regard was one of equal malevolence, of brimming, cold
hatred. But slowly a new look came into Norton's eyes, a probing,
penetrating look of calculation. Galloway was again opening his lips
when the sheriff spoke, saying with contemptuous lightness:
"Jim Galloway, you and I have bucked each other for a long time. I
guess it's in the cards that one of us will get the other some day.
Why not right now and end the whole damned thing?--When I'm up against
a man as I am against you I like to make it my business to know just
how much sand has filtered into his make-up. You'd kill me if you had
the chance and weren't afraid to do it, wouldn't you?"
"If I had the chance," returned Galloway as coolly, though a spot of
color showed under the thick tan of his cheek. "And I'll get it some
day."
"If you've got the sand," said Norton, "you don't have to wait!"
"What do you mean?" snapped Galloway sharply.
Norton's answer lay in a gesture. Always keeping such a rein on his
horse that he faced Galloway and kept him at his right, he lifted the
hand which had been hanging close to his gun. Slowly, inch by inch,
his eyes hard and watchful upon Galloway's eyes, he raised his hand.
Understanding leaped into Galloway's prominent eyes; it seemed that he
had stopped breathing; surely the hairy fingers upon the cantle of his
saddle had separated a little, his hand growing to resemble a tarantula
preparing for its brief spring.
Steadily, slowly, the sheriff's hand rose in the air, brought upward
and outward in an arc as his arm was held stiff, as high as his
shoulder now, now at last lifted high above his head. And all of the
time his eyes rested bright and hard and watchful upon Jim Galloway's,
filled at once with challenge and recklessness . . . and certainty of
himself.
Galloway's right hand had stirred the slight fraction of an inch, his
fingers were rigid and still stood apart. As he sat, twisted about in
his saddle, his hand had about seven inches to travel to find the gun
in his hip pocket. Since, when they first met, he had thrown his big
body to one side, his left boot loose in its stirrup while his weight
rested upon his right leg, his gun pocket was clear of the saddle, to
be reached in a flash.
"You'll never get another chance like this, Galloway," said Norton
crisply. "I'd say, at a guess, that my hand has about eight times as
far to travel as yours. You wanted an even break; you've got more than
that. But you'll never get more than one shot. Now, it's up to you."
"Before we start anything," began Galloway. But Norton cut him short.
"I am not fool enough to hold my hand up like this until the blood runs
out of my fingers. You've got your chance; take it or leave it, but
don't ask for half an hour's option on it."
Swift changing lights were in Galloway's eyes. But his thoughts were
not to be read. That he was tempted by his opportunity was clear; that
he understood the full sense underlying the words, "You'll never get
more than one shot," was equally obvious. That shot, if it were not to
be his last act in this world, must be the accurate result of one
lightning gesture; his hand must find his gun, close about the grip,
draw, and fire with the one absolutely certain movement. For the look
in Rod Norton's eyes was for any man to read.
Jim Galloway was not a coward and Rod Norton knew it. He was
essentially a gambler whose business in life was to take chances. But
he was of that type of gambler who plays not for the love of the game
but to win; who sets a cool brain to study each hand before he lays his
bet; who gauges the strength of that hand not alone upon its intrinsic
value but upon a shrewd guess at the value of the cards out against it.
At that moment he wanted, more than he wanted anything else in the wide
scope of his unleashed desires, to kill Rod Norton; he balanced that
fact with the other fact that less than anything in the world did he
want to be killed himself. The issue was clear cut.
While a watch might have ticked ten times neither man moved. During
that brief time Galloway's jaw muscles corded, his face went a little
white with the strain put upon him. The restive horses, tossing their
heads, making merry music with jingling bridle chains, might have
galloped a moment ago from an old book of fairy-tales, each carrying a
man bewitched, turned to stone.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|