"You've been gassin' just now about shootin' people in the back—sayin' that I've been thinkin' of doin' it. But I reckon you ain't thought a lot about the way you're intendin' to put me out of business. I was wonderin' if it made any difference—shootin' a man in the back or shootin' him when he ain't got any guns. I expect a man that's shot when he ain't got guns would be just as dead as a man that's shot in the back, wouldn't he?"
He laughed again, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. "That's the reason I ain't scared a heap," he said. "From what I know about you you ain't the man to shoot another without givin' him a chance. An' you're givin' me a chance to talk. I ain't goin' to do any prayin'. I reckon that's right?"
Radford shifted his feet uneasily. He could not have told at that moment whether or not he had intended to murder Ferguson. He had waylaid him with that intention, utterly forgetful that by shooting the stray-man he would be committing the very crime which he had accused Ferguson of contemplating. The muzzle of his weapon drooped uncertainly.
"Talk quick!" he said shortly.
Ferguson grinned. "I'm takin' my time," he returned. "There ain't any use of bein' in such an awful hurry—time don't amount to much when a man's talkin' for his life. I ain't askin' who told you what you've said about me—I've got a pretty clear idea who it was. I've had to tell a man pretty plain that my age has got its growth an' I don't think that man is admirin' me much for bein' told. But if he's wantin' to have me put out of business he's goin' to do the job himself—Ben Radford ain't doin' it."
While he had been talking he had contrived to throw the left side of his vest open, and his right hand was exposed in the dim light—a heavy six-shooter gleaming forebodingly in it. His arms were still crossed, but as he talked he had turned a very little and now the muzzle of the weapon was at a level—trained fairly upon Radford's breast. And then came Ferguson's voice again, quiet, cold, incisive.
"If there's goin' to be any shootin', Ben, there'll be two of us doin' it. Don't be afraid that you'll beat me to it." And he stared grimly over the short space that separated them.
For a full minute neither man moved a muscle. Silence—a premonitory silence—fell over them as they stood, each with a steady finger dragging uncertainly upon the trigger of his weapon. An owl hooted in the cottonwood nearby; other noises of the night reached their ears. Unaware of this crisis Mustard grazed unconcernedly at a distance.
Then Radford's weapon wavered a little and dropped to his side.
"This game's too certain," he said.