For Harlan’s right hand had moved slightly upward, toward the pistol at his right hip. It went only a few inches; it was still far below the holster when Latimer’s clawlike fingers descended to the butt of his own weapon. The thought that he would beat Harlan in a fair draw was in his mind—that he would beat him despite the confusion of the hesitating motion with which Harlan got his gun out.
Something was happening, though—something odd and unexplainable. For though Latimer had seemed to have plenty of time, he was conscious that Harlan’s gun was belching fire and death at him. He saw the smoke streaks, felt the bullets striking him, searing their way through him, choking him, weakening his knees.
He went down, his eyes wide with incredulity, filling with hideous self-derision when he saw that the pistol which had sent his death to him was not in Harlan’s right hand at all, but in his left.
Harlan got up slowly as Latimer stretched out in the dust at his feet—casting one swift glance at the fallen man to satisfy himself that for him the incident was ended. Then, with the gaze of every man in the outfit upon him, he strode toward the stable, where Lanky and Poggs were standing, having witnessed the death of their confederate.
They stiffened to immobility as they watched Harlan’s approach, knowing that for them the incident was not closed—their guilt plain in their faces.
And when Harlan halted in front of them they stood, not moving a muscle, their eyes searching Harlan’s face for signs that they too, were to receive a demonstration of the man’s uncanny cleverness.
“You was backin’ Latimer’s play,” said Harlan, shortly. “I’m aimin’ to play the string out. Pull—or I’ll blow you apart!”
Poggs and Lanky did not “pull.” They stood there, ghastly color stealing into their faces, their eyes wide with the knowledge that death would be the penalty of a hostile movement.
Harlan’s pistol was again in its holster, and yet they had no desire to provoke the man to draw it. The furtive gleam in the eyes of both revealed the hope that gripped them—that some of the watchers would interfere.
But not a man moved. Most of them had been stunned by the rapidity of Harlan’s action—by the deftness with which he had brought his left hand into use. They had received the practical demonstration for which they all had longed, and each man’s manner plainly revealed his decision to take no part in what was transpiring.