"All right," said Storm. "Fire!"
"Of all the cold-blooded frawgs!"
"You'll need a touch of bear oil on that lock, Yank. It's 'ard on the draw."
Storm wanted that minute. He hoped it wasn't cowardly. Just one minute before—to serve in this life, or in another world?
"Oh, well," he said out loud, "it doesn't really matter. Aim low."
"I'm going to call your bluff!" cried No-man, and took aim. "Damn you! I'll call your bluff!"
"Too low," said Storm, "Hiram, that gun kicks!"
It did!
The recoil knocked the invalid head over heels against the wall of the tipi. Then he looked at the slow-drifting smoke as it swept upwards, and from behind came Storm's rather hysterical chuckle. "You'll catch it, Yank! A bullet hole through the skin of the lodge, a leak just over where she sleeps!"
No-man scrambled back to some sort of posture for defense, but when the smoke cleared he saw Storm still sitting, the Book clasped in his hands, a broad grin on his face.