“You mighty fine givin’ chances, mister,” he said, between his teeth. “Maybe you sing different later. Bah! you make me laff. Say, I ready.”
“Yes, git right ahead an’ laff,” Arizona replied imperturbably. “An’ meanwhiles while you’re laffin’, I’ll trouble you to git out o’ that sheep’s hide. It ain’t fit clothin’ fer you noways. Howsum, it helps to thicken your hide. Take it off.”
The half-breed obeyed and the two men now stood motionless. Arizona was an impressive figure in that world of snow. Never before had his personality been so marked. It may have been the purpose that moved him that raised him to something superior to the lean, volcanic cowboy he had hitherto been. His old slouching gait, in spite of his evident weakness, was quite gone; his shaggy head was held erect, and he gazed upon his enemy with eyes which the other could not face. For the time, at least, the indelible stamp of his disastrous life was disguised by the fire of his eyes and the set of his features. And this moral strength he conveyed in every action in a manner which no violence, no extent of vocabulary could have done. This man before him had robbed him of the woman he had loved. He should die.
His pistol was still in his hand.
“When I say ‘three,’ you’ll jest grab for your gun—an’ fire,” he said solemnly.
He relapsed into silence, and, after a moment’s pause, slowly stooped to deposit his weapon. His great roving eyes never relaxed their vigilance, and all the while he watched the man before him.
Lower he bent, and the pistol touched the ground. He straightened up swiftly and stood ready.
“One!”
The half-breed started as though a sharp spasm of pain had convulsed his body. Then he stood as if about to spring.
“Two!”