“You git!” repeated “Mexico,” turning the pointing finger from the door to the face of the startled wretch.
With a fierce oath “Peachy” reached for his gun, but hesitated to draw. “Mexico” moved not a line of his face, not a muscle of his body, except that his head went a little back and the heavy eyelids fell somewhat over the piercing black eyes.
“You dog!” he ground out through his clenched teeth, “you know you can't bring out your gun. I know you. You poor cur! You thought you'd sell me up to the other side! I know your scheme! Now git, and quick!”
The command came sharp like a snap of an animal's teeth, while “Mexico's” hand dropped swiftly to his side. Instantly “Peachy” rose and backed slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin of a savage beast. At the door he paused.
“'Mexico,'” he said, “is this the last between you and me?”
“Mexico” kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon the face of the man backing out of the door.
“Git out, you cur!” he said, with contemptuous deliberation.
“Take that, then.”
Like a flash, “Mexico” threw himself to one side. Two shots rang out as one. A slight smile curled “Mexico's” lip.
“Got him that time, I reckon.”