Captain Benavides's jaw dropped slightly; with a quiet, deliberate motion his hand stole to his holster-flap. Lieutenant Arredondo wet his lips and glanced so apprehensively at his companion that Webster was aware that here was a situation not to his liking.
“You should use an open holster,” Webster taunted. “Come, come—unbutton that holster-flap and get busy.”
Benavides's hand came away from the holster. He was not the least bit frightened, but his sense of proportion in matters of this kind was undergoing a shake-up.
“In disposing of any enemy in a gun fight, so a professional killer once informed me,” Webster continued, “it is a good plan to put your first bullet anywhere in the abdomen; the shock of a bullet there paralyzes your opponent for a few seconds and prevents him from returning the compliment, and in the interim you blow his brains out while he lies looking at you. I have never had any practical experience in matters of this kind, but I don't mind telling you that if I must practise on somebody, the good Lord could not have provided two more delightful subjects.”
He ceased speaking, and for nearly half a minute the three men appraised each other. Benavides was smiling slightly; Arredondo was fidgeting; Webster's glance never faltered from the Captain's nervous hand.
“You would be very foolish to draw,” Webster then assured Benavides. “If I am forced to kill you, it will be with profound regret. Suppose you two dear, sweet children run along home and think this thing over. You may change your mind by to-morrow morn——”
The Captain's hand, with the speed of a juggler's, had flown to his holster; but quick as he was, Webster was a split-second quicker. The sound of his shot roared through the silent calle, and Benavides, with his pistol half drawn, lifted a bloody, shattered hand from the butt as Webster's automatic swept in a swift arc and covered Arredondo, whose arms on the instant went skyward.
“That wasn't a half-bad duel,” Webster remarked coldly. “Are you not obliged to me, Captain, for not blowing your brains out—for disregarding my finer instincts and refraining from shooting you first through the abdomen? Bless you, my boy, I've been stuck for years in places where the only sport consisted in seeing who could take a revolver, shoot at a tin can and roll it farthest in three seconds. Let me see your hand.”
Benavides sullenly held up that dripping member, and Webster inspected it at a respectful distance. “Steel-jacket bullet,” he informed the wounded man. “Small hole—didn't do much damage. You'll be just as well as ever in a month.”
He helped himself to Arredondo's gun, flipped out the cylinder, and slipped all six cartridges into his palm. Similarly he disarmed Benavides, expressed his regret that circumstances had rendered it imperative to use force, and strolled blithely down the calle. In the darkened patio he groped along the wall until he found the swinging rope by which he had descended from his room—whereupon he removed his shoes, tied the laces together, slung them around his neck, dug his toes into the adobe wall and climbed briskly to his room.