ly and like the cornered rat he had become doubly dangerous. He
had set out only to torture a defenseless victim, and now it seemed a
question of killing or being killed, so he loaded his voice with
truculence as he went on.

"Ef ye seeks ter draw hit out or come a step frontwards, so help me
Almighty God I'll kill ye in yore tracks!"

Turner Stacy smiled. Upon his ability to do so with a semblance of
quiet contempt he was staking everything.

"Shoot whenever ye gits ready, Ratler," he challenged. "But don't do
hit onless ye're expectin' ter die, too. When this trigger-work
commences, I aims ter _git_ ye."

"Move a hand or a foot then, an' see--" The voice was desperately high
pitched and nasal now, almost falsetto, but through its threat Bear Cat
recognized an undercurrent of sudden terror. The desperado remembered
that his horse stood hitched a quarter of a mile away. His right boot
sole had been freshly patched and left a clearly identifying mark in
the mud. He had prepared no alibi in advance, and within a few hours
after Turner fell scores of his kinsmen would be baying on the trail.

"Shoot!" taunted Bear Cat Stacy. "Why don't ye shoot?"--and then with
an effrontery which dazed his antagonist, he deliberately moved several
steps forward--halting nearer the pistol's muzzle.

"I don't aim ter kill ye onless I has ter," stormed Webb with weakening
assurance. "Halt! I'm givin' ye fa'r warnin'. Hit's self-d_ee_fense ef
ye crowds me."

Stacy spoke again, standing once more motionless.

"Ye couldn't shoot thet pistol at me ef I walked in on ye with my hands
over my head. My time hain't come yit ter die, because ther's things I
was born ter do--an' God Almighty aims ter hev me live till I've done
'em. He don't aim ter hev me hurt by no coward like you, I reckon. Ye
couldn't shoot any man noways whilst his eyes was lookin' full at ye.
Ye has need ter lay hid in ther la'rel afore ye kin pull yore trigger
finger. I dares ye to shoot!"

The white-bearded miller stood motionless, too, measuring all the
chances. For a moment he wondered whether it would be possible to
strike up the armed hand with his long staff, but he wisely repressed
the impulse. This after all was a new sort of combat, a duel of wills
rather than of weapons. He knew that Bear Cat Stacy was unarmed because
he had so recently seen the sweat-drenched shirt clinging close to the
arched chest.

Ratler Webb's hand no longer trembled with the uncertain