singular calm in the steady eyes
which looked across at him?

Also, how explain the hunger of that stare? Was not he McGurk, and was
not this a man whom he had already once shot down? God, what a fool he
had been not to linger an instant longer in that saloon in the old days
and place the final shot in the prostrate body! In all his life he had
made only one such mistake, and now that folly was pursuing him. And
now--

The foot of the white horse lifted--struck the rock. The sound of its
fall was lost in the explosion of two guns, and a ring of metal on
metal. The revolver snapped from the hand of McGurk, whirled in a
flashing circle, and clanged on the rocks at his feet. The bullet of
Pierre had struck the barrel and knocked it cleanly from his hand.

It was luck, only luck, that placed that shot, and his own bullet,
which had started first, had travelled wild for there stood Pierre le
Rouge, smiling faintly, alert, calm. For the first time in his life
McGurk had missed. He set his teeth and waited for death.

But that steady voice of Pierre said: "To shoot you would be a
pleasure; it would even be a luxury, but there wouldn't be any lasting
satisfaction in it. So there lies your gun at your feet. Well, here
lies mine."

He dropped his own weapon to a position corresponding with that of
McGurk's.

"We were both very wild that time. We must do better now. We'll stoop
for our guns, McGurk. The signal? No, we won't wait for the horse to
stamp. The signal will be when you stoop for your gun. You shall have
every advantage, you see? Start for that gun, McGurk, when you're
ready for the end."

The hand of McGurk stretched out and his arm stiffened but it seemed as
though all the muscles of his back had grown stiff. He could not bend.
It was strange. It was both ludicrous and incomprehensible. Perhaps
he had grown stiff with cold in that position.

But he heard the voice of Pierre explaining gently: "You can't move, my
friend. I understand. It's fear that stiffened your back. It's fear
that sends the chill up and down your blood. It's fear that makes you
think back to your murders, one by one. McGurk, you're done for.
You're through. You're ready for the discard. I'm not going to kill
you. I've thought of a finer hell than death, and that is to live as
you shall live. I've beaten you, McGurk, beaten you fairly on the
draw, and I've broken your heart by doing it. The next time you face