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He was thinking only, and saw only within his field of vision, a cut-glass button that fastened the bottom of Sandusky's greased waistcoat. "You've waited one day too long to collect for your strawberry, de Spain," cried Logan shrilly. "You've turned one trick too many on the Sinks, young fellow. If the man that put your mark on you ain't in this room, you'll never get him."
But before he could speak, a second man appeared in the doorway, and this man appeared to be joking with a third, behind him. As the second man crossed the threshold, de Spain saw Sandusky's high-voiced little fighting crony, Logan, who now made way, as he stepped within to the right of the open door, for the swinging shoulders and rolling stride of Gale Morgan.
It had become second nature to de Spain to note even insignificant details concerning men, and he took an interest in and remarked how very low Logan carried his gun in front of his hip. Sandusky's holster was slung higher and farther back on the side. Logan wore a tan shirt and khaki.
De Spain discounted the next few minutes far enough to feel that Sandusky's first shot would mean death to him, even if he could return it. "I'll tell you, de Spain," continued Logan, "we're going to have a drink with you. Then we're going to prepare you for going back where you come from with nice flowers."
De Spain, following mountain etiquette in the circumstances, spread his open hands, palms down, on the bar. Sandusky's great palms slid in the same fashion over the checked slab in unspoken recognition of the brief armistice. Logan's hands came up in turn, and Morgan still pounded for some one to serve. De Spain in the new disposition weighed his chances as being both better and worse.
He had heard of Sandusky's hand. From the tips of the big fingers to the base of the palm, this right hand, spread over his chips, would cover half again the length of the hand of the average man. De Spain credited readily the extraordinary stories he had heard of Sandusky's dexterity with a revolver or a rifle.
Logan, alive to the trick but caught behind his partner, fired over Sandusky's right shoulder at de Spain's head, flattened sidewise against the gasping outlaw's breast. Hugging his shield, de Spain threw his second shot over Sandusky's left shoulder into Logan's face. Logan, sinking to the floor, never moved again.
"That ought not to bother you much, Sandusky," shouted de Spain, trying to win a smile from his taciturn antagonist. "His noise won't bother anybody much longer," put in Logan, whose retorts overflowed at every interval. But there was no smile even hinted at in the uncompromising vigilance of Sandusky's expressionless face.
"If you want terms, hand over your gun to Sassoon," cried Logan. "Not till it's empty," returned de Spain. "Do you want to try taking it?" he demanded of Logan, his cheeks burning a little darker. Logan never answered the question. It was not meant to be answered. For de Spain asked it only to cover the spring he made at that instant into Sandusky's middle.
The bullet shook without stopping his enemy, and de Spain, partly caught under Sandusky's body, thought, as Sassoon came on, the game was up. With an effort born of desperation, he dragged himself from under the twitching giant, freed his revolver, rolled away, and, with his sight swimming, swung the gun at Sassoon's stomach. He meant to kill him.
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