the latter softly, slowly, glided back out of the straight line of danger;
heard the quick breathing of Captain Lorrimer who stood pasty pale, gaping
behind the bar; heard the gritted teeth of Blondy Hansen, who would not
take water.

"Vic," said Blondy, "it looks like you mean trouble. Anyway, you just now
done something that needs explaining."

He stood straight as a soldier, rigid, but the fingers of his right hand
twitched, twitched, twitched; the hand itself stole higher. Very calmly,
Vic hunted for his words, found them.

"A cattle rustler is bad," he pronounced, "a hoss thief is worse, but
you're the lowest sneak of the lot, Blondy."

Again that silence with the pulse in it, and Vic Gregg could feel the chill
which numbed every one except himself.

The lower jaw of Captain Lorrimer sagged, and his whisper came out in
jerking syllables: "God Almighty!" Then Blondy went for his gun, and Vic
waited with his hand on the butt of his own, waited with a perfect, cold
foreknowledge, heard Blondy moan as his Colt hung in the holster, saw the
flash of the barrel as it whipped out, and then jerked his own weapon and
fired from the hip. Blondy staggered but kept himself from falling by
gripping the edge of the bar with his left hand; the right, still holding
the gun, raised and rubbed across his forehead; he looked like a sleeper
awakening.

Not a sound from any one else, while Vic watched the tiny wraith of smoke
jerk up from the muzzle of his revolver. Then Blondy's gun flashed down and