‘Step into the middle of the room,’ ordered Hashknife. ‘Right out there, away from the rest. Watch ’em, Sleepy.’ Hashknife stepped up to the bed, picked up a six-shooter and walked back to Eller, who stared at him foolishly. With a flip of his wrist, Hashknife dropped the gun into Eller’s empty holster, and stepped back about six feet and bolstered his own gun.
‘It’s an even break, Eller,’ he said coldly. ‘You’re a liar; a dirty, forked-tongued liar. You’ve got a gun in yore holster, and I’m talkin’ to yuh straight.’
Red Eller hesitated. Hashknife’s right hand hung limply at his side, swaying back and forth past his holster, but there was nothing about his pose or expression that would indicate a quick draw. For several seconds there was no sound except the breathing of people. Then:
‘Don’t do it, Red,’ whispered Spike. ‘It ain’t worth the chance.’
Eller licked his lips and shook his head.
‘I pass,’ he said softly. ‘Mebby I did lie, Hartley.’
Swiftly Hashknife stepped over and removed the gun.
‘What’s next?’ asked Morgan angrily.
‘Go home and try to mind yore own business.’
‘All right—but wait until we tell what happened.’