“Ah, I wus jest sayin’, ’bout that feller’s wife,” he went on quietly. “Say, you acted the skunk t’ward that feller. An’ that feller wus me. I don’t say I wus jest a daisy husband fer that gal, but that wa’n’t your consarn. Wot’s troublin’ wus your monkeyin’ around, waitin’ so he’s out o’ the way an’ then vamoosin’ wi’ the wench an’ all. Guess I’m goin’ to kill you fer that sure. But ther’ ain’t none o’ the skunk to me. I’m goin’ to treat you as you wouldn’t treat me ef I wus settin’ wher’ you are, which I ain’t. You’re goin’ to hit the One-Way Trail. But you ken hit it like what you ain’t, an’ that’s a man.”
Arizona’s calm, judicial tone goaded his hearer. But “Tough” McCulloch was not the man to shout. His was a deadlier composition such as the open American hated and despised, and hardly understood. He contented himself with a cynical remark which fired the other’s volcanic temper so that he could scarcely hold his hand.
“Me good to her,” he said, with a shrug.
“You wus good to her, wus you? You who knew her man wus livin’! You, as mebbe has ha’f a dozen wives livin’. You wus good to her! Wal, you’re goin’ to pay now. Savee? You’re goin’ to pay fer your flutter wi’ chips, chips as drip wi’ blood—your blood.”
The half-breed shrugged again. He was outwardly unconcerned, but inwardly he was cursing the luck that he had been wearing mitts upon his hands when he entered the bluff. He watched Arizona as he climbed out of his saddle. He beheld the signs of weakness which the other could no longer disguise, but they meant nothing to him, at least, nothing that could serve him. He knew he must wait the cowpuncher’s pleasure; and why? The ring of white metal which marks the muzzle of a gun has the power to hold brave man and coward alike. He dared not move, and he was wise enough not to attempt it.
Arizona drove his horse off into the bush, and stepped over to his prisoner, who still remained mounted, halting abreast of the man’s stirrup and a few yards to one side of it. His features now wore the shadow of a grim smile as he paused and looked into the face which displayed so much assumed unconcern.
“See this gun,” he said, drawing attention to the one he held in his right hand; “it’s a forty-fi’, an’ I’m guessin’ it’s loaded in two chambers.” Then he scraped the snow off a small patch of the road with his foot. “That gun I lay right here,” he went on, stooping to deposit it, but still keeping his eyes fixed upon the horseman. “Then I step back, so,” moving backward with long regular strides, “an’ I reckon I count fifteen paces. Then I clear another space,” he added grimly, like some fiendish conjurer describing the process of his tricks, “and stand ready. Now, ‘Tough’ McCulloch, or Anton, or wotever you notion best, skunk as you are, you’re goin’ to die decent. You’re goin’ to die as a gentleman in a square fought duel. You’re goin’ to die in a slap-up way as is a sight too good fer you, but don’t go fer to make no mistake—you’re goin’ to die. Yes, you’re goin’ to get off’n that plug o’ yours an’ stand on that patch, an’ I’m goin’ to count three, nice an’ steady, one-two-three! Just so. An’ then we’re goin’ to grab up them guns an’ let rip. I ’lows you’ll fall first ’cause I’m goin’ to kill you—sure. Say, you’ll ’blige me by gittin’ off’n that plug.”
The half-breed made no move. His unconcern was leaving him under the deliberate purpose of this man.
“Git off o’ that plug!” Arizona roared out his command with all the force of his suppressed passion.
The man obeyed instantly. And it was plain now that his courage was deserting him. But in proportion his cunning rose. He made a pitiful attempt at swagger as he walked up to his mark, and his fierce eyes watched every movement of his opponent. And Arizona’s evident condition of starvation struck him forcibly, and the realization of it suggested to his scheming brain a possible means of escape.