The fellow held a wary position on the farther side of his horse,
the while he ripped out a raucous string of invectives.
"Real fluent, ain't he?" murmured Hawkes, as he began to circle
round to flank the enemy.
"Stay right there, Del Hawkes. Move, you redhaided son of a brand
blotter, and I'll pump holes in you!" A rifle leveled across the
saddle emphasized his sentiments.
"Plumb hospitable," grinned Hawkes, coming promptly to a halt.
Collins rode slowly forward, his hand on the butt of the revolver
that still lay in its scabbard. The Winchester covered every step
of his progress, but he neither hastened nor faltered, though he
knew his life hung in the balance. If his steely blue eyes had
released for one moment the wolfish ones of the villain, if he
had hesitated or hurried, he would have been shot through the
head.
But the eyes of a brave man are the king of weapons. Hardman's
fingers itched at the trigger he had not the courage to pull. For
such an unflawed nerve he knew himself no match.
"Keep back," he screamed. "Damn it, another step and I'll fire!"
But he did not fire, though Collins rode up to him, dismounted,
and threw the end of the rifle carelessly from him.
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