The possibility, dangling at the other end of the slender thread of chance, did not allure him. For he knew he could not draw the pistol at his hip with Harlan’s gaze upon him—that would be suicide.
“Deveny!”
Harlan’s voice, snapping with menace roused him, straightened him, brought an ashen pallor to his face.
“It’s your turn, Deveny. You stay here. Flash your gun!”
Here it was—the dreaded moment. Deveny saw the men around him stiffen rigidly; he heard their slow-drawn breaths. The thought to draw his gun was strong in him, and he fought hard to force his recreant muscles to do the will of his mind. For an instant he stood, his right hand poised above the holster of his pistol, the elbow crooked, ready to straighten.
And then, with the steady, coldly flaming eyes of Harlan upon him, Harlan’s right hand extended slightly, the fingers spread a little as though he was about to offer his hand to the other. Deveny became aware that he was doing an astonishing thing. He was raising his right hand!
Already it was at his shoulder. And as he marveled, it went higher, finally coming to a level with his head, where it stopped. He had publicly advertised his refusal to settle his differences with Harlan with the pistol.
“Yellow!”
It was Harlan’s voice. “You won’t fight an’ you won’t run. Well, we’ll keep you, savin’ you for the governor. I reckon he’ll be glad to see you.”
Harlan turned, sheathing his pistol, and began to walk toward his horse, his back toward Deveny.