But Harlan’s hand had come to a poise, just above the stock of his weapon—a pause so infinitesimal that it was merely a suggestion of a pause.
It was enough, however, to throw Laskar off his mental balance, and as he drew his weapon he glanced at Harlan’s holster.
A dozen men who watched swore afterward that Laskar drew his gun first; that it was in his hand when Harlan’s bullet struck him. But Deveny knew better; he knew that Laskar was dead on his feet before the muzzle of his weapon had cleared the holster, and that the shot he had fired had been the result of involuntary muscular action; that he had pulled the trigger after Harlan’s bullet struck him, and while his gun had been loosening in his hand.
For Deveny had seen the bullet from Laskar’s gun throw up sand at Harlan’s feet after Harlan’s weapon had sent its death to meet Laskar. And Deveny had discovered the secret of Harlan’s “draw.” The pause was a trick, of course, to disconcert an adversary. But the lightning flash of Harlan’s hand to his gun-butt was no trick. It was sheer rapidity, his hand moving so fast that the eye could not follow.
And Deveny could get no pleasure from his discovery. Harlan had waited until Laskar’s fingers were wrapped around the stock of his pistol before he had drawn his own, and therefore in the minds of those who had witnessed the shooting, Harlan had been justified.
Sheriff Gage thought so, too. For, after Laskar’s body had been carried away, Harlan stepped to where the sheriff stood and spoke shortly:
“You wantin’ me for this?”
Sheriff Gage shook his head. “I reckon everybody saw Laskar go for his gun. There was no call for him to go for his gun. If you’d have shot him without him reachin’ for it things would have been different.”
Harlan said coldly, “I’m ready for that trial, now.”
The sheriff’s eyes glowed with some secret significance as they met Harlan’s. He was standing at a little distance from Deveny, and he deliberately closed an eye at Harlan.