For a moment the two men stood almost breast to breast; then, like a flash, Bert’s g*n came up with the deadly speed and precision acquired by natural dexterity and long hours of lonely practice.
Ordinarily the c***k of the g*n would have been simultaneous with the downward snap of the wrist, but for some reason Bert hesitated, even though he remembered that Tom Chill had professed to be his friend, yet had been the first one to fire on him a few minutes before.
He realised suddenly that Chill had not attempted to draw. The man’s face was pale as a soda cracker, but he was keeping his hands away from his g*n with what looked like rather grim determination.
“Ugh! Gurgle—gurgle—I—I shore thought, ugh, that I was killed,” Chill got out huskily.
“Yuh came damn’ near bein’ at that, yuh skun
