“I’ll do that damn quick, then,” said the other, his hand flying to his hip.
“Sit down,” was the sharp rejoinder, and a pistol was in his face before he could draw his own weapon.
“Put your gun on the table,” Foyle said, quietly. Halbeck did so. There was no other way.
Foyle drew it over to himself. His brother made a motion to rise.
“Sit still, Dorl,” came the warning voice.
White with rage, the freebooter sat still, his dissipated face and heavy angry lips, looking like a debauched and villanous caricature of his brother before him.
“Yes, I suppose you’d have potted me, Dorl,” said the ex-sergeant. “You’d have thought no more of doing that than you did of killing Linley, the ranchman; than you did of trying to ruin Jo Byndon, your wife’s sister, when she was sixteen years old, when she was caring for your child—giving her life for the child you brought into the world.”
“What in the name of hell—it’s a lie!”
“Don’t bluster. I know the truth.”
“Who told you—the truth?”