Harboro took in the insinuated insult. He remained unmoved. He could see that Fectnor was not a coward, no matter what else he was; and he realized that this man would seek to enrage him further, so that his eyes would be blinded, so that his hands would tremble.
“I’m going to kill you, Fectnor,” Harboro continued. “But I’m going to give you a chance for your life. I want you to turn and walk down the street twelve paces. Then turn and draw. I’ll not draw until you turn unless you try to play a trick on me. Your best chance lies in your doing just as I tell you to.”
Fectnor regarded him shrewdly with his peering, merry eyes. He rather liked Harboro, so far as first impressions went. Yet his lips were set in a straight line. “All right,” he drawled amiably. His voice was pitched high—almost to a falsetto.
“Remember, you’d better not draw until you’ve turned around,” advised Harboro. “You’ll be more likely to get your bearings right that way. You see, I want to give you an even break. If I’d wanted to murder you I could have slipped up from behind. You see that, of course.”
“Clear as a whistle,” said Fectnor. He gave Harboro a final searching look and then turned about unflinchingly. He proceeded a few steps, his hands held before him as if he were practising a crude cake-walk. The serge garment depended from one arm. He was thinking with lightning-like rapidity. Harboro had courage enough—that he could tell—but he didn’t behave like a man who knew very many tricks with a gun. Nevertheless he, Fectnor, would be under a disadvantage in this test of skill which was being forced upon him. When he turned he would need just a second to get a perfect balance, to be quite sure of his footing, to get his bearings. And that one second might make all the difference in the outcome of the affair. Moreover, there was one other point in Harboro’s favor, Fectnor realized. His was the stronger determination of the two. Fectnor had not flinched, but he knew that his heart was not in this fight. He could see that Harboro was a good deal of a man. A fool, perhaps, but still a decent fellow.
These were conclusions which had come in flashes, while Fectnor took less than half a dozen steps. Then he turned his head partly, and flung back almost amiably: “Wait until I get rid of my coat!”
“Drop it!” cried Harboro sharply.
But Fectnor plainly had another idea. He turned a little out of his course, still with his hands well in front of him. It was evident, then, that he meant to fling his coat on the sidewalk.
Harboro held him with eyes which were keen as knives, yet still a little dubious. He was puzzled by the man’s good humor; he was watchful for sudden stratagems. His own hands were at his sides, the right within a few inches of his hip.
Yet, after all, he was unprepared for what happened. Fectnor leaned forward as if to deposit his coat on the sidewalk. Then he seemed to stumble, and in two swift leaps he had gained the inner side of the walk and had darted into the inset of the saloon. He was out of sight in a flash.