ierre's revolver. The parting
of the crowd was explained.

An unlighted cigar was between Pierre's teeth. They showed gleaming
white under his black moustache. Only bright points of light marked his
eyes between their narrowed lids. Still holding his revolver
point-blank, with thumb and finger he raised and lowered the hammer. The
sharp, even click pierced Morrison's nerves like electric shocks. It was
not in man to endure this toying with death. Surprise gave place to
fear, and this in turn to mortal agony. His face paled. Great drops
stood out on his forehead, gathered and streamed down his face. He
feared to move, yet he trembled. His legs shook under him. There was a
final stagger, but his terrified eyes never left Pierre's face. With a
shuddering groan, he sank helpless to the floor. Pierre's smile
broadened horribly. He lowered his weapon and, turning aside, thrust it
in his pocket.

Morrison had died a thousand deaths. If he lived he would die a thousand
more. This Pierre knew. For this reason and others he did not shoot.
Pierre also knew other things. Morrison had refused to take heed to his
words. He had gone his own way. He had made light of Pierre before the
men. Last of all, he had gained courage to taunt Pierre to his face with
weakening, had bitterly accused him of using Elise as a means of
ingratiating himself with the Rainbow crowd. Pierre was not above taking
a human life as a last resort; but even then he must see clearly that
the gain warranted the risk. Morrison had been weighed and passed upon.
A dead Morrison meant a divided following. A living Morrison, cowed and
beaten and shamed before them all, was dead to Pierre. This was Pierre's
reasoning, and he was right. The first step had been taken. The next one
he was not to take; but this fact did not nullify Pierre's logic. Given
time, Pierre knew that Morrison would be beaten, discredited, do what he
would.

Luna helped the fallen Morrison to his feet. The first thing Morrison
noticed was Pierre walking away toward the private office. Luna again
approached Morrison with a brimming glass of brandy.

"Take this down. Lord! That was a nerve-peeler! I don't blame you for
going under."

Morrison swallowed the liquor at a gulp. The pallor died away and a hot
flush mounted his face.

"I've got him to settle with, too. I'll make him squeal before I'm
done."

The crowd had surged to the door to meet a swarm of howling men who had
just come down fro