Both guns came up at exactly the same instant. Ben’s eyes snapped shut and he turned his head aside.
Came a tiny ping, hardly louder than the mere snapping of a revolver hammer. Another and another. Bud’s eyes jerked open. The two riders were thirty feet apart, leaning forward in their saddles. Not a shot had been fired.
With a swift movement, Bud Hickman swung out the cylinder of his Colt and emptied the cartridges in his hand. Every primer had been dented. There were marks on the bullets, marks made by the jaws of a pair of pliers.
Pete was swearing viciously, as he drew cartridges from his belt and started to stuff them in his gun.
But the sheriff halted him with a sharp word.
“Damn you, you pulled the powder on my shells!” snarled Pete.
“Yeah; and I’ll pull somethin’ else out of you, if you make one more move,” said the sheriff calmly. “C’mere, Bud.”
Bud rode up to him, still holding the empty gun in his hand. Pete had quit trying to load his gun. They looked coldly at each other.
“You boys hadn’t ort to fight,” said the sheriff calmly. “Both of you goin’ off kinda half cocked, as you might say.”