"Stand clear be——! I want my money. I'll have my whack o' the swag, and have it now! D'ye hear? Now!"
"I have nothing about me," Ryan answered. "You drunken fool, stand clear!"
The twenty paces between them were reduced to ten.
"Nothing about you!" jeered Pound, spitting upon the ground. "Ay, I know—you carry your nothing round your neck, old man! And I'll have my share of it now or never!"
They were almost at arm's length now.
"Never, then!" cried Ryan, half drawing his revolver.
In a flash Pound's arm unfolded, and his right arm shot out straight from the shoulder. There followed a streak of fire and a loud report. Thin clouds of white smoke hung in the motionless air. From their midst came a deep groan and the thud of a dead weight falling. And Pound was left standing alone, a smoking pistol in his hand. For a minute he stood as still as Ryan lay.
"A shake longer," he muttered at length, "and I'd have been there and you here. As it is—as it is, I think you're cooked at last, skipper!"
He put the revolver back in his pocket, and stood contemplating his work. The sight completely sobered him. To a certain degree it frightened him as well. Of the other sensations, such as might ensue upon a first murder, Jem Pound experienced simply none. Even his fear was not acute, for it was promptly swallowed by cupidity.
"Now for them notes!"