Boone shook his head.
"I told you when I came in here why I wouldn't fight you. I can't fight your father's son. You know as damned well as you know you're living that no other man on earth could say the things you've said and go unpunished—and you know just that damned well, too, why I'm holding my hand."
As he paused, both were breathing as heavily as though their battle had been violently physical instead of only verbal, and it was Boone who spoke next.
"Put away that gun," he ordered curtly. "Unless you're still bent on doing murder."
He stepped forward until his chest came in contact with the muzzle, his own hands still unlifted.
"Get back!" barked Morgan, who stood with his back against the desk. "If you crowd me I will shoot."
There was a swift panther-like sweep of Boone's right arm and Morgan felt fingers closing about his wrist. Then reason left him and he pressed the trigger.
But no report started echoes in the empty building. Morgan felt only the bone-crushing pressure that made his wrist ache as it was forced up, and then he saw that the hand which had closed vice-like on it had one finger thrust between the hammer and firing pin of his weapon.
The reaction left him dizzy, as he reflected that he had done all that man could do toward homicide and had been halted only by his unarmed adversary's quicker thought and action. Boone uncocked the firearm and laid it on the table, under the other's hand.
"I guess you see now," said Morgan in a low voice, "that after this the two of us can't stay in this office."