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
clanked on the floor. A red spot grew on the breast of Hansen's shirt; now
he leaned as if to pick up something, but instead, slid forward on his
face.
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