"Still acting!" the trapper sneered, "showing off to yourself, eh? Of all the humbugs! Of all infernal hypocrites! I'll make you own to the sham! I'll——"
"Call my bluff!" cried Storm, exulting. "Try again. Aim lower. Ask Him to help. I always have to, 'cause I'm such a rotten bad shot."
"Ask the Devil!" cried No-man, wild with rage.
"Friend of yourn?" asked Storm, then with biting sarcasm: "Ask him then! You couldn't hit me with the muzzle against my ribs!"
"What'll you bet?"
"My burning-glass. You has always envied that."
"Agin what?"
"Your soul, Yank. My burning-glass to your soul, you daren't fire!"
"Done!"
Beside himself, cursing, raving, the trapper loaded, reviling the powder, wad, ramrod, gun, himself, and the Devil, then with a burst of frantic blasphemy, he advanced the weapon against Storm's ribs, and let fly. The lock snapped in the pan.