“Now, you hell-hound,” continued Broom, “your time has come. I——” With a deadly intent he was sighting the weapon.
“Stop! You cowardly bully,” cried Roy furiously from the doorway. “If you wish to fight you can fight me, but leave that wretched, cowering Indian alone.” He spoke rapidly but calmly, and his tone of command had its effect upon Broom.
“What devil’s luck brought him here?” Broom muttered to himself as he unconsciously lowered the revolver and stood looking at Roy with darkened brows. But the next moment he laughed recklessly.
Roy started at the sound of this discordant laughter. He eyed Broom questioningly, apprehensively for some moments. From his strange agitated manner, the gray pallor of his countenance and the wild, shifty look in his eyes, Roy knew that he had to deal with a man who, if not actually insane, or acting a part, was on the verge of delirium, or could it be delirium tremens? But whatever the condition or cause, the man was in a state that might be dangerous to himself and to others, especially while in the possession of firearms. Roy resolved to propitiate him as far as was consistent with getting him under control.
“Fight you, my English bulldog; why, of course I’ll fight you,” cried the frenzied man, handling his revolver in a reckless manner. “But not in the low-bred manner of your countrymen, if you please. Hands are weapons for women; we’ll fight like men.” Again he flourished the dangerous weapon, then playfully presenting it at Roy, he shut an eye and took long, deliberate aim.
The trader glanced unflinchingly at the extended revolver. He fully realized that his life depended upon the whim of a lunatic, and God only knew what strange fantasy would next flash through Broom’s crazed brain; but he realized also it was only a bold presence that would save the situation. He therefore desisted from drawing his own weapon, and remained motionless, gazing unswervingly down the little blue muzzle before him.
There was silence for some moments, then Broom laughed uncomfortably, and, throwing up the revolver, he deliberately fired over Roy’s head. The bullet whistled desperately near his skull, but he stood immovable. This unperturbed demeanor appeared to have a quieting effect upon the delirious Broom, for he presently lowered his weapon.
Meanwhile a plan had flashed through Roy’s brain. He would induce Broom to discharge his revolver at some innocent object till he was assured its chamber was exhausted; then, with the help of Sahanderry, he would secure him.
But unfortunately for this plan Broom’s thoughts had returned to the proposed fight. Flourishing his own weapon recklessly, he called on Roy to “produce his gun!”
“Come on, my weak-blooded Englishman; surely you are not afraid,” he jeered.