“Holderness!”
The rustler pivoted on whirling heels.
“Dene's spy!” he exclaimed, aghast. Swift changes swept his mobile features. Fear flickered in his eyes as he faced his foe; then came wonder, a glint of amusement, dark anger, and the terrible instinct of death impending.
“Naab's trick!” hissed Hare, with his hand held high. The suggestion in his words, the meaning in his look, held the three rustlers transfixed. The surprise was his strength.
In Holderness's amber eyes shone his desperate calculation of chances. Hare's fateful glance, impossible to elude, his strung form slightly crouched, his cold deliberate mention of Naab's trick, and more than all the poise of that quivering hand, filled the rustler with a terror that he could not hide.
He had been bidden to draw and he could not summon the force.
“Naab's trick!” repeated Hare, mockingly.
Suddenly Holderness reached for his gun.
Hare's hand leapt like a lightning stroke. Gleam of blue—spurt of red—crash!
Holderness swayed with blond head swinging backward; the amber of his eyes suddenly darkened; the life in them glazed; like a log he fell clutching the weapon he had half drawn.