Ruth gasped. For she saw Pickett reach for his gun. It was drawn half out of its holster. As though he had divined what was in Pickett’s mind, Randerson had turned slightly at Pickett’s movement. There was a single rapid movement to his right hip, the twilight was split by a red streak, by another that followed it so closely as to seem to make the two continuous. Pickett’s hand dropped oddly from the half-drawn weapon, his knees sagged, he sighed and pitched heavily forward, face down, at Randerson’s feet.
Dimly, as through a haze, Ruth saw a number of the cowboys coming toward her, saw them approach and look curiously down at the thing that lay almost at her feet. And then someone took her by the arm—she thought it was Uncle Jepson—and she was led toward the door. At the threshold she paused, for Randerson’s voice, cold and filled with deadly definiteness, reached her:
“Do you want to take his end of this?” Ruth turned. Randerson was pointing to Pickett’s body, ghastly in its prone slackness. He was looking at Chavis.
Evidently Chavis elected not to avenge his friend at that moment. For there was a dead silence while one might have counted fifty. Then Ruth was drawn into the house.
The twilight was split by a red streak