“Drop that gun!” he shouted. “Drop it quick, or you are a dead man!”
There was no possibility of disobedience. Thorne straightened up and laid his revolver on the table. The two confronted each other, and if looks could have killed they had both been dead men. The soldier shrugged his shoulders at last, took his handkerchief out of his pocket, put one end of it between his teeth, and with the other hand wrapped it tightly around his wounded wrist.
The civilian meantime advanced toward him, keeping him covered all the time with his revolver.
“Do you know why I didn’t kill you like the dog you are, just now?” he asked truculently, as he drew nearer.
“Because you are such a damned bad shot, I suppose,” coolly answered Thorne between his teeth, still tying the bandage, after which he calmly picked up his cigar and began smoking again with the utmost indifference.
Whatever fate had in store for him could better be met, he thought swiftly at this juncture, provided he kept his temper, and so he spoke as nonchalantly as before. Indeed his manner had always been most irritating and exacerbating to Arrelsford.
“Maybe you will change your mind about that later on,” the latter rejoined.
“Well, I hope so,” said Thorne, completing his bandage and tying the knot so as to leave the fingers of his left hand free. “You see, it isn’t pleasant to be riddled up this way.”
“Next time you’ll be riddled somewhere else beside the wrist. There’s only one reason why you are not lying there now with a bullet through your head.”
“Only one?” queried Thorne.