Huntington’s hand had slipped to the butt of his revolver at the beginning of this intolerable speech; but he had waited, as if fascinated, as if unable to move under the torrent of denunciation. Then to the onlookers it appeared that the bold young man, who had not yet made the slightest motion toward his own weapon, would be slain in his tracks. But Haig was 46 as much the quicker in action as he was the nimbler in wit.
The two revolvers cracked, it seemed, as one, but with very different results. Haig’s battered old hat, lifted as if by a sudden gust of wind, slid from his head, and fell to the ground with a bullet hole through it. But Huntington threw up his hands, pitched forward, and fell in a heap in the dusty road.
There was a single shrill, short-cut shriek as a woman near the door of the post-office slipped down in a faint; and then a chorus of quavering cries as other women clutched the arms of the men nearest them.
Marion swayed in her saddle, her head drooping on her breast. A young cowboy darted from the crowd, and grabbed her as she fell. He started to lift and carry her away, but, with a desperate effort, she recovered, and stood erect, trying to thrust him from her. He held her nevertheless, supporting her with an arm under one of hers.
Haig had quickly turned and faced the group of men at the left of the road.
“Is there anybody else here that wants to buy my horse?” he demanded coolly.
There was no response, no movement. He whirled, and confronted the silent row of men on the other side.
“Is there anybody else here who thinks he can drive me out of Paradise Park?”
Still no one replied; and Haig, with a shrug, thrust his revolver back in its holster.
“Thompson!” he called out.