He threw himself on a bunk and inside of five minutes was snoring.
Tug, too, wanted to sleep. The desire of it grew on him with the passing hours. Overtaxed nature demanded a chance to recuperate. Instead, the young man drank strong coffee.
Jake Prowers’s shrill little voice asked mildly, with the hint of a cackle in it, if he was not tired.
“In the middle of the day?” answered Tug, stifling a yawn.
“Glad you ain’t. You ’n’ me’ll be comp’ny for each other. Storm’s peterin’ out, looks like.”
“Yes,” agreed the guest.
It was. Except for occasional gusts, the wind had died away. Tug considered the possibility of leaving before night fell. But if he left, where could he go in the gathering darkness? Would Prowers let him walk safely away? Or would a declaration of his intention to go bring an immediate showdown? Even so, better fight the thing out now, while he was awake and Cig asleep, than wait until he slipped into drowsiness that would give the little spider-man his chance to strike and kill.
Tug had no longer any doubt of his host’s intention. Under a thin disguise he saw the horrible purpose riding every word and look. It would be soon now. Why not choose his own time and try to get the break of the draw?
He could not do it. Neither will nor muscles would respond to the logical conviction of his mind that he was entitled to any advantage he could get. To whip out his gun and fire might be fair. He had no trouble in deciding that it was. But if luck were with him—if he came out alive from the duel—how could he explain why he had shot down without warning the man who was sheltering him from the blizzard? For that matter, how could he justify it to himself in the years to come? A moral certainty was not enough. He must wait until he knew, until the old killer made that lightning move which would give him just the vantage-ground Tug was denying himself.
All that Tug could do was watch him, every nerve keyed and muscle tensed, or bring the struggle to immediate issue. He came, suddenly, clearly, to the end of doubt.