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.
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