strange fury that made him want to leap ahead. He seemed to
long for this encounter more than anything he had ever wanted.
But, vivid as were his sensations, he felt as if in a dream.

Before he reached Everall's he heard loud voices, one of which
was raised high. Then the short door swung outward as if
impelled by a vigorous hand. A bow-legged cowboy wearing wooley
chaps burst out upon the sidewalk. At sight of Duane he seemed
to bound into the air, and he uttered a savage roar.

Duane stopped in his tracks at the outer edge of the sidewalk,
perhaps a dozen rods from Everall's door.

If Bain was drunk he did not show it in his movement. He
swaggered forward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red, sweaty,
disheveled, and hatless, his face distorted and expressive of
the most malignant intent, he was a wild and sinister figure.
He had already killed a man, and this showed in his demeanor.
His hands were extended before him, the right hand a little
lower than the left. At every step he bellowed his rancor in
speech mostly curses. Gradually he slowed his walk, then
halted. A good twenty-five paces separated the men.

"Won't nothin' make you draw, you--!" he shouted, fiercely.

"I'm waitin' on you, Cal," replied Duane.

Bain's right hand stiffened--moved. Duane threw his gun as a
boy throws a ball underhand--a draw his father had taught him.
He pulled twice, his shots almost as one. Bain's big Colt