"There's sound logic in that," said Oliver grimly. "I'll take you up. Put your gun in its holster and drop your hands to your sides. Then we'll draw, with your gun hand three feet nearer your gun than mine will be. Come! I've got business down below."
The halfbreed's eyes widened in unbelief. "D'ye really mean it, kid? You saw me shoot Henry Dodd—d'ye really wanta draw with me?"
"I do."
"But then you'll be dead, and I won't know nothin' about the gems. Unless that letter tells?"
"Perhaps. You mustn't expect me to take all the chances, you know."
"Does the letter tell?"
"I haven't opened it, I say."
Foss studied in drunken seriousness. "And if you should happen to get me, why—why, where am I at again?" he puzzled.
Oliver laughed outright. "You're an amusing creature," he said. "I don't believe you're half the badman that you imagine you are." He believed nothing of the sort, but his arms were growing desperately weary and he must goad the drunken gunman into immediate action.
"There's just one thing that's the matter with you," he gibed on, ready to descend to any speech that would cut the killer and break his deadly calm. "That's my getting your girl away from you! It's not the gems; it's that that hurts you. Why, say, do you think she'd wipe her feet on you!"