"Tell him," said Pete. "I want to know myself."
"What's it to you?" snarled Gary, and he stepped back. Gary's very attitude was a challenge. Pete knew that he could not drop his rope and pull his own gun quick enough to save himself. He saw Gary's hand move almost imperceptibly toward his holster.
"I reckon I made a mistake," said Pete slowly—and he let the rope slip from his hand as though utterly unnerved. "I—I talked kind o' quick," he stammered.
"Well, you won't make no more mistakes," sneered Gary, and he dropped his hand to his gun. "You want to know who plugged that old hoss-thief, Annersley, eh? Well, what you goin' to say when I tell you it was me?"
Pete saw that Gary was working himself up to the pitch when he would kill. And Pete knew that he had but one chance in a thousand of breaking even with the killer. He would not have time to draw—but Montoya had taught him the trick of shooting through the open holster… Cotton heard Pete's hand strike the butt of his gun as the holster tilted up. Pete fired twice. Staring as though hypnotized, Gary clutched at his shirt over his chest with his free hand. He gave at the knees and his body wilted and settled down—even as he threw a desperate shot at Pete in a last venomous effort to kill.
[Illustration: Cotton heard Pete's hand strike the butt of his gun as the holster tilted up.]
"You seen it was an even break," said Pete, turning to Cotton, who immediately sank to his knees and implored Pete not to kill him.
"But I reckon you'd lie, anyhow," continued Pete, paying no attention to the other's mouthings. "Hunt your cayuse—and git a-movin'."