As if by some feat in legerdemain Harboro’s weapon was in his hand; but it was a hand that trembled slightly. He had allowed Fectnor to gain an advantage.
He stared fixedly at that place where Fectnor had disappeared. His right hand was held in the position of a runner’s, and the burnished steel of the weapon in it caught the light of the sun. He had acquired the trick of firing while his weapon was being elevated—not as he lowered it; with a movement like the pointing of a finger. He was ready for Fectnor, who would doubtless try to take him by surprise.
Then he realized that the level rays of the sun made the whole entrance to the saloon, with its several facets of glass, a thing of dazzling opaqueness. He could not see Fectnor until the latter stepped forth from his ambush; yet it seemed probable that Fectnor might be able to see him easily enough through the glass barricade behind which he had taken refuge. He might expect to hear the report of a weapon and the crash of glass at any instant.
At this realization he had an ugly sensation at the roots of his hair—as if his scalp had gone to sleep. Yet he could only stand and wait. It would be madness to advance.
So he stood, almost single-mindedly. He had a disagreeable duty to perform, and he must perform it. Yet the lesser cells of his brain spoke to him, too, and he realized that he must present a shocking sight to law-abiding, happy people, if any should appear. He was glad that the street was still deserted, and that he might reasonably hope to be unseen.
Then his hand shot forward with the fierceness of a tiger’s claw: there had been a movement in the saloon entrance. Only by the fraction of a second was the finger on the trigger stayed.
It was not Fectnor who appeared. Dunwoodie stepped into sight casually and looked in Harboro’s direction. The expression of amused curiosity in his eyes swiftly gave place to almost comical amazement when he took in that spasmodic movement of Harboro’s.
“What’s up?” he inquired. He approached Harboro leisurely.
“Stand aside, Dunwoodie,” commanded Harboro harshly.
“Well, wait a minute,” insisted Dunwoodie. “Calm yourself, man. I want to talk to you. Fectnor’s not in the saloon. He went on through and out the back way.”