"It's a thousand pities," he said; "for I never saw a man develop
character so fast."
He cocked the triggers, and handed the pistols to Zeb, to take his
choice.
"Stand where you are, while I step out fifteen paces." He walked slowly
along the fosse, and, at the end of that distance, faced about.
"Shall I give the word?"
Zeb nodded, watching him sullenly.
"Very well. I shall count three slowly, and after that we can fire as
we please. Are you ready?--stand a bit sideways. Your chest is a
pretty broad target--that's right; I'm going to count.
_One--two--three--_"
The word was hardly spoken before one of the pistols rang out. It was
Zeb's; and Heaven knows whither his bullet flew. The smoke cleared away
in a blue, filmy streak, and revealed his enemy standing where he stood
before, with his pistol up, and a quiet smile on his face.
Still holding the pistol up, the stranger now advanced deliberately
until he came to a halt about two paces from Zeb, who, with white face
and set jaw, waited for the end. The eyes of the two men met, and
neither flinched.
"Strip," commanded the stranger. "Strip--take off that jersey."
"Why not kill me without ado? Man, isn't this cruel?"
"Strip, I say.
Pages:
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123