You'd kill me if you had
the chance and weren't afraid to do it, wouldn't you?"
"If I had the chance," returned Galloway as coolly, though a spot of
color showed under the thick tan of his cheek. "And I'll get it some
day."
"If you've 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.
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