"I've come to settle accounts with you, mister," Quinn remarked in a drawling voice.
If the fellow had raged and cursed, if he had seemed to be in a passion, if his fists had been clenched, or the muscles of his face set, it would not have been so appalling. But this deadly composure, the careless indifference with which he held his pistol in his right hand, while his left hung loosely at his side, was more than terrifying; it was fairly blood-curdling.
Lem's hands had let the reins drop, and the horses had gone plodding on, the plow lurching and swaying at their heels.
For an instant Lem's brain whirled.
Swing that girl, that pretty little girl,
That girl you left behind you!
His brain seemed to be whirling to the tune of that jingle.
"If you've got anything to say," drawled Quinn, fingering the trigger, the pistol pointed at Lem's forehead—"if you've got anything to say, now's your chance. Sorry I can't allow you time to make a will," he added facetiously, "but I've got to get back to my work."
Lem's brain was clear now. There were no more jingles in it. Nothing was there but an overwhelming conviction that, if the man did not shoot quickly, Joe might arrive, and show Quinn his mistake. That must not be. Joe was too fine a fellow to end like this—like this!
Lem Keith was shuddering from head to foot, and his lips were stiff and blue, yet there was an odd, masterful ring in his voice as he cried, "Make haste, will you, and shoot!"
A shot rang out, and Lem fell, pierced, not by Bub Quinn's bullet, but by the living horror of death. On the furrows beside him Bub Quinn lay stretched, with blood oozing from his right shoulder.