The strength of Cartwright was cut away at the root. The color was struck out of his face as by a mortal blow. "What d'you mean?" he whispered.
"You don't deserve a man's chance, but I'm going to give it to you. Go get your gun, Cartwright!"
Cartwright slunk back in his chair. "Do you mean murder, Sinclair?"
"I mean a fair fight."
"You're a gunman. You been raised and trained for gunfighting. I wouldn't have no chance!"
Sinclair controlled his scorn. "Then I'll fight left-handed. I'm a right-handed man, Cartwright, and I'll take you with my gun in my left hand. That evens us up, I guess."
"No, it don't!"
But with the cry on his lips, the glance of Cartwright flickered past Sinclair. He grew thoughtful, less flabby. He seemed to be calculating his chances as his glance rested on the window.
"All right," he whispered, a fearful eye on Sinclair, as if he feared the latter would change his mind. "Gimme a fair break."
"I'll do it."