Had Haydon faced a man with less courage; had Harlan’s iron control lacked that quality which permitted him to give an enemy that small chance for life which he always gave them, death might have reigned at the Star again. Haydon owed his life to that hesitation which had made Harlan famous.
And as the strained, tense seconds passed with both men holding the positions they had assumed, it seemed Haydon was slowly beginning to realize that Harlan was reluctant, was deliberately giving him a chance.
A change came over Haydon. The clawlike fingers began to straighten; imperceptibly at first, and then with a spasmodic motion that flexed the muscles in little jerks. The hand became limp; it dropped slowly to his side—down beyond the pistol holster. Then it came up, and the man swept it over his eyes, as though to brush away a vision that frightened him.
His face grew pale, he shuddered; and at last he stood, swaying a little, his mouth open with wonder for the phenomenal thing that had happened to him.
Harlan’s voice, cold and expressionless, startled him:
“You wasn’t meanin’ to cuss me?”
“No!” The denial was blurted forth. Haydon grinned, faintly, with hideous embarrassment; the knowledge that he had been beaten, and that he owed his life to Harlan, was plain in his eyes.
He laughed, uncertainly, as he made an effort to stiffen his lagging muscles.
“I was a bit flustered, Harlan; I talked rather recklessly, I admit. You see, I’ve been used to giving orders myself. I was riled for a minute.”
“That goes!” said Harlan, shortly. His voice had changed. The slow drawl had gone, and a snapping, authoritative sharpness had replaced it.