Kells stood up.
Larson jerked his head emphatically at the chair, snapped: “Sit down.”
Kells said slowly: “I work pretty fast, Gus. I’ll bet you can shoot me through the heart an’ I’ll have my gun out an’ have a couple slugs in your belly before I hit the floor.” He smiled a little. “Let’s try it.”
Larson said, “Sit down,” loudly.
“I’ll bet you can’t even hit my heart — I’ll bet you’re a lousy shot.” Kells took a short step forward, balanced himself evenly on both feet.
Larson was white. His big mouth hung a little open.
Kells said: “Let’s go.” His hand went swiftly to his side.
Larson’s shoulders moved convulsively, his right hand went forward, up, with the revolver. At the same time he threw his head forward and down, fell forward out of the chair. The revolver clattered on the floor.
Kells was standing on the balls of his feet, an automatic held crosswise against his chest. He stared down at Larson and his eyes were wide, surprised.
He said, “Well, I’ll be god-damned,” under his breath.