They were close together now, with only the table between them—Cain and Abel—the old bitter story plain in the hate of one flashing face and the agony of the other. Guerd Larey had divined the means to torture and to crucify this brother whose heart and soul were raw.
“Talk about the fall of Saint Anthony!” cried Guerd, with a voice magical in its steely joy. “Never was there a fall like Adam Larey’s—the Sunday-school boy—too sweet—too innocent—too pure to touch the hand of a girl!... Ha-ha! Oh, we can fight, Adam. I’ll fight you. But let me talk—let me tell my friends what a damned hypocrite you are.... Gentlemen, behold the immaculate Saint Adam whose Eve was a little greaser girl!”
There was no shout of mirth. The hall held a low-breathing silence. It was a new scene, a diversion for the gamblers and miners and their painted consorts, a clash of a different kind and spirit. Guerd paused to catch his breath and evidently to gather supreme passion for the delivery of what seemed more to him than life itself. His face was marble white, quivering and straining, and his eyes blazed with a piercing flame.
Adam saw the living, visible proof of a hate he had long divined. The magnificence of Guerd’s passion, the terrible reality of his hate, the imminence of a mortal blow, locked Adam’s lips and jaws as in a vise, while a gathering fury, as terrible as Guerd’s hate, flooded and dammed at the gates of his energy, ready to break out in destroying violence.
“She told me!” Guerd flung the words like bullets. “You needn’t bluff it out with your damned lying white face. She told me!... You—you, Adam Larey, with your pure thoughts and lofty ideals ... the rot of them! You—damn your milksop soul!—you were the slave of a dirty little greaser girl who fooled you, laughed in your face, left you for me—for me at the snap of my fingers.... And, by God! my cup would be full—if your mother could only know——”
THEN THE GUN BOOMED WITH MUFFLED REPORT—AND GUERD LAREY, UTTERING A CRY OF AGONY, FELL AWAY FROM ADAM
It was Collishaw’s swift hand that knocked up Adam’s flinging arm and the gun which spouted red and boomed heavily. Collishaw grappled with him—was flung off—and then Guerd lunged in close to save himself. A writhing, wrestling struggle—quick, terrible; then the gun boomed with muffled report—and Guerd Larey, uttering a cry of agony, fell away from Adam, backward over the table. His gaze, conscious, appalling, was fixed on Adam. A dark crimson spot stained his white shirt. Then he lay there with fading eyes—the beauty and radiance and hate of his face slowly shading.
Collishaw leaned over him. Then with hard, grim gesture he shouted, hoarsely: “Dead, by God!... You’ll hang for this!”
A creeping horror was slowly paralyzing Adam. But at that harsh speech he leaped wildly, flinging his gun with terrific force into the sheriff’s face. Like an upright stone dislodged Collishaw fell. Then Adam, bounding forward, flung aside the men obstructing his passage and fled out of the door.