ou makin' it?" Shiller repeated. "Oh, no, you ain't. You're a
gentle, meek-and-mild pilgrim, you are. I ain't goin' to hold this gun
all day, neither. You better hit the high spots. I'll give you time to
get on your cayuse and drift. At the end of two minutes this man goes
out of that door, and I ain't responsible for what happens. I'm sure
sorry, Tom, to treat you like this, but I got my house to consider."

"That's all right, Bob," said McHale. "Looks like you hold the ace.
I'll step. Far's I'm concerned you needn't keep them gents two minutes
nor one." He turned to the door.

"I'm lookin' for you, McHale," said Cross.

"Come a-runnin'," said McHale. "Bring your friends."

He walked into the middle of the road, turned, and waited. His action
attracted little attention. Coldstream was indoors, somnolent with the
afternoon heat. Across the street the proprietor of the general store
commented lazily to a friend:

"What's Tom McHale doin'?"

"Some fool joke. He's full of them. I reckon he wants us to ask him."

McHale called to them: "Boys, if I was you I'd move out of line of me
and Bob's door."

"What did I tell you?" the wise one commented. "You bet I don't bite.
I----"

Out of the door of Shiller's surged Cross, gun in hand. Uncertain where
to find McHale, he glared about. Then, as he saw him standing in the
middle of the road, the weapon seemed to leap to a level.
Simultaneously McHale shot from the hip.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Pale-pink flashes stabbed the afternoon light. Coldstream echoed to the
fusillade. Its inhabitants ran to doors and windows, streaming into the
streets. One of the store windows suddenly starred. Long lines, like
cracks in thin ice, appeared in it, radiating from a common centre. The
proprietor and his friend, electrified, ducked and sprang for shelter.
A woman screamed in fright.

Suddenly Cross staggered, turning halfway around. The deadly rage in
his face changed to blank wonder. His pistol arm sagged. Then he
collapsed gently, not as a tree falls, but as an overweighted sapling
bends, swaying backward until, overbalanced, he thudded limply on the
ground.

McHale, half crouched like a fighting animal awaiting an attack, peered
with burning eyes over the hot muzzle of his gun at the prostrate
figure. Swiftly he swung out the cylinder of the weapon, ejected the
empty shells, refilled the chambers, and snapped it shut. Shiller's
door opened. McHale covered it instantly, but it was