"Don't" said Sinclair, as if the words strangled him. "Don't say that,
Cartwright, if you please!"

"Why not? You put up a good slick talk, Sinclair. But you don't win. I
ain't going to give her up by no divorce. I'm going to keep her. I
don't love her enough to want her back, I hate her enough. They's only
one way that I'd stop caring about--stop fearing that she'd shame me.
And that's by having her six feet underground. But you, Sinclair, you
need coin. You're footloose. Suppose you was to take her and bring her
to--"

"Don't!" cried Sinclair again. "Don't say it, Cartwright. Think it over
again. Have mercy on her, man. She could make some home happy. Are you
going to destroy that chance?"

"Say, what kind of talk is this?" asked the big man.

"Now," said Sinclair, "look to your own rotten soul!"

The strength of Cartwright was cut away at the root. The color was
struck out of his face as by a mortal blow. "What d'you mean?" he
whispered.

"You don't deserve a man's chance, but I'm going to give it to you. Go
get your gun, Cartwright!"

Cartwright slunk back in his chair. "Do you mean murder, Sinclair?"

"I mean a fair fight."

"You're a gunman. You been raised and trained for gunfighting. I
wouldn't have no chance!"

Sinclair controlled his scorn. "Then I'll fight left-handed. I'm a
right-handed man, Cartwright, and I'll take you with my gun in my left
hand. That evens us up, I guess."

"No, it don't!"

But with the cry on his lips, the glance of Cartwright flickered past
Sinclair. He grew thoughtful, less flabby. He seemed to be calculating
his chances as his glance rested on the window.

"All right," he whispered, a fearful eye on Sinclair, as if he feared
the latter would change his mind. "Gimme a fair break."

"I'll do it."

Sinclair shifted his gun to his left hand and turned to look at the
window which Cartwright had been watching with such intense interest.
He had not half turned, however, when a gun barked at his very ear, it
seemed, a tongue of flame spat in from the window, there was a crash of
glass, and the lamp was snuffed. Some accurate shot had cut the burning
wick out of the lamp with his bullet, so nicely placed that, though the
lamp reeled, it did not fall.

24

With the spurt of flame, Sinclair leaped back until his shoulders
grazed the wall. He crouched beside the massive chest of drawers. It
might partially shelter him from fire from the window.

There fell one