“I am,” said Brennan.
“Ready,” I replied.
“The word will be one, two, three—fire; with a slight pause after the three. A report from either pistol before the final word is spoken I shall take personally. Be prepared now.”
There was a moment's pause; so still was it I heard the chirping of birds overhead, and the flutter of a leaf as it fell swirling at my feet. I saw Brennan as through a mist, and in its undulations there seemed to be pictures of the face of his wife, as if her spirit hovered there between us. To have shot then would have been like piercing her before reaching him.
“Ready!” said the voice once more; and as I saw Brennan's arm slowly rise, I lifted mine also, and covered him, noting, as I did so, almost in wonder, with what steadiness of nerve and wrist I held the slender gauge just beneath the visor of his cap. Deliberately, as though he dreaded the necessity, Caton counted:
“One; two; three—fire!”
My pistol exploded, the charge striking the limb above him, and I staggered backward, my hat torn from my head, a white line cut through my hair, and a thin trickle of blood upon my temple. I saw Caton rushing toward me, his face filled with anxiety, and then Brennan hurled his yet smoking derringer into the dirt at his feet with an oath.
“Damn it, Moorehouse,” he roared, fairly beside himself, “the charge was too heavy; it overshot.”
“Are you much hurt?” panted Caton.
“Merely pricked the skin.”