The bottle on the bar exploded, fine bits of glass shooting to the far corners of the room.
"Come on—you—yellow—"
VB's fingers found the butt of his Colt, closed and yanked. It came from the holster, poised, muzzle upward, his thumb over the hammer. Possibly he stood thus a tenth part of a second, but while he waited for his eyes to focus well a generation seemed to parade past. He was hunted down by a crawling piece of vermin!
A parallel sprang to his mind. While Rhues sought his body did not another viper seek his soul? Was—
Then he made out the figure—crouched low. The forty-five came down, and the room resounded with its roar. He stood there, a greenhorn who had never handled a weapon in his life until the last year, giving battle to a gun fighter whose name was a synonym!
Out of the moonlight came another flash, and before VB could answer the hunched figure had leaped from the area framed by the doorway.
"You won't stand!" the boy cried, and strode across the room.
"Don't be a fool! VB!"
The bartender's warning might as well have been unheard. Straight for the open door went the boy, gun raised, coughing from the powder smoke. But the mustached man, though panderer by profession, revolted at unfairness; perhaps it was through the boy's ignorance, but he knew VB walked only to become a target. Twice his gun roared from behind the bar and the two swinging lamps became scattered, tinkling fragments.
VB seemed not to heed, not to notice that he was in darkness. He reached the door, put his left hand against the casing, and looked out. With lights behind he would have been riddled on the instant. But, looking from blackness to moonlight, he was invisible for the moment—but only for a moment.