"If God withholds His hand and you drop me, the dogs and outfit are
yours. You'll find a bill of sale, already made out, in my pocket," Uri
explained, facing the path of the bullet, straight and broad-breasted.

Fortune shook a vision of the sun shining on the ocean from his eyes and
took aim. He was very careful. Twice he lowered as the spring breeze
shook the pines. But the third time he dropped on one knee, gripped the
revolver steadily in both hands, and fired. Uri whirled half about,
threw up his arms, swayed wildly for a moment, and sank into the snow.
But Fortune knew he had fired too far to one side, else the man would not
have whirled.

When Uri, mastering the flesh and struggling to his feet, beckoned for
the weapon, Fortune was minded to fire again. But he thrust the idea
from him. Chance had been very good to him already, he felt, and if he
tricked now he would have to pay for it afterward. No, he would play
fair. Besides Uri was hard hit and could not possibly hold the heavy
Colt long enough to draw a bead.

"And where is your God now?" he taunted, as he gave the wounded man the
revolver.

And Uri answered: "God has not yet spoken. Prepare that He may speak."

Fortune faced him, but twisted his chest sideways in order to present
less surface. Uri tottered about drunkenly, but waited, too, for the
moment's calm between the catspaws. The revolver was very heavy, and he
doubted, like Fortune, because of its weight. But he held it, arm
extended, above his head, and then let it slowly drop forward and down.