got the sand," said Norton, "you don't have to wait!"

"What do you mean?" snapped Galloway sharply.

Norton's answer lay in a gesture. Always keeping such a rein on his
horse that he faced Galloway and kept him at his right, he lifted the
hand which had been hanging close to his gun. Slowly, inch by inch,
his eyes hard and watchful upon Galloway's eyes, he raised his hand.
Understanding leaped into Galloway's prominent eyes; it seemed that he
had stopped breathing; surely the hairy fingers upon the cantle of his
saddle had separated a little, his hand growing to resemble a tarantula
preparing for its brief spring.

Steadily, slowly, the sheriff's hand rose in the air, brought upward
and outward in an arc as his arm was held stiff, as high as his
shoulder now, now at last lifted high above his head. And all of the
time his eyes rested bright and hard and watchful upon Jim Galloway's,
filled at once with challenge and recklessness . . . and certainty of
himself.

Galloway's right hand had stirred the slight fraction of an inch, his
fingers were rigid and still stood apart. As he sat, twisted about in
his saddle, his hand had about seven inches to travel to find the gun
in his hip pocket. Since, when they first met, he had thrown his big
body to one side, his left boot loose in its stirrup while his weight
rested upon his right leg, his gun pocket was clear of the saddle, to
be reached in a flash.

"You'll never get another chance like this, Galloway," said Norton
crisply. "I'd say, at a guess, that my hand has about eight times as
far to travel as yours. You wanted an even break; you've got more than
that. But you'll never get more than one shot. Now, it's up to you."

"Before we start anything," began Galloway. But Norton cut him short.

"I am not fool enough to hold my hand up like this until the blood runs
out of my fingers. You've got your chance; take it or leave it, but
don't ask for half an hour's option on it."

Swift changing lights were in Galloway's eyes. But his thoughts were
not to be read. That he was tempted by his opportunity was clear; that
he understood the full sense underlying the words, "You'll never get
more than one shot," was equally obvious. That shot, if it were not to
be his last act in this world, must be the accurate result of one
lightning gesture; his hand must find his gun, close about the grip,
draw, and fire with the one absolutely certain movement. For the look