Before any of the three could renew their attempt, I had my revolver in hand—ready to deal death to the first who re-assailed me.
The footpads stood aghast. They had not expected such a determined resistance; and, if left to themselves, in all probability, I should have seen no more of them that night.
If left to themselves, I could have dealt with them conveniently enough. In truth, I could have taken the lives of all three, as they stood in their speechless bewilderment.
I held in my hand a Colt’s six-shooter, Number 2; another in my belt; twelve shots in all—sure as the best percussion caps and careful loading could make them. A fourth of the shots would have sufficed: for I had no thought of taking uncertain aim.
Despite the cause given me for excitement, I never felt cooler in my life—that is for a combat. For an hour before, my nerves had been undergoing a strain, that served only to strengthen them.
I had been in want of something upon which to pour out my gathering wrath; and here was the thing itself. God, or the devil, seemed to have sent the three thieves as a safety-valve to my swollen passion—a sort of target on which to expend it!
Jesting apart, I thought so at the time; and so sure was I of being able to immolate the trio at my leisure, that I only hesitated as to which of them I should shoot down first!
You may be incredulous. I can assure you that the scene I am describing is no mere romance, but the transcript of a real occurrence. So also are the thoughts associated with it.
I stood eyeing my assailants, undecided about the selection.
I had my finger on the trigger; but, before pressing it, a quick reflection came into my mind that restrained me from shooting.