Bad Man's Gulch by Max Brand Page B

we’re each goin’ to have a revolver in our hands, and you’re goin’ to stand in the middle of the room against the wall there and you’re goin’ to have another revolver in your hand. An’ then you’re goin’ to count up to ten, slow and deliberate-like, and, when you reach ten, we’re goin’ to raise our guns and shoot, and the quickest shot is the man what’s goin’ to live. But if one of us raises his gun and shoots before ten is reached, you, Tom McLane, are goin’ to shoot that man down, even if he’s your own son. Is this fair an’ square? An’ then if I’m done for, I reckon there’s a pile of people won’t care a lot. An’ if Henry’s done for, I reckon the feud will be called square. Blood covers up blood, don’t it, Tom McLane?” He stopped, breathing somewhat heavily from his own oration.
    Tom McLane turned on his son. “Well,” he said, “what do you say to this? Does the game suit you?”
    â€œNo” burst out Henry, his lips twitching while hespoke. “This here game is murder, that’s what it is, an’ it doesn’t give a man a fair chance, it . . .”
    â€œSilence,” roared Tom McLane, “are ye a son of mine? By God, I say the game suits me! What? Will ye turn down a fair an’ square gamblin’ chance, an’ you the best shot in these parts, Henry McLane? Stand up at that end of the room, I say, an’ get out your gun, and, if you make a stir to shoot before I count ten, I’ll shoot and shoot straight if you were ten times my son. Get over there! This here feud has raised hell with two fine families long enough. I lost an uncle an’ two cousins. It’s goin’ to stop, an’ there ain’t no better way than the way that’s put up to you now. Stan’ over there!”
    With reluctant feet and backward glancing eyes, as if the spot he had just left were the only safe one in the room, Henry McLane took up his position and looked toward the calmly smiling face of Lazy Purdue. The sight seemed to infuriate him suddenly beyond all self-control. “Sure I’ll play the game,” he cried through tense lips, “an’, by God, I’ll blow your head offen you, George Conover, jus’ as I blowed the head off the other George Conover! You ain’t no spirit come back with another man’s name. I reckon you’re flesh an’ blood. Pa, you c’n begin to count.”
    He stood leaning forward as if poised to run, with the pistol clenched so tightly in his hand that his fingers went white about the knuckles. His eyes ate hungrily into the face of Lazy Purdue, who stood opposite, quite at his ease and hardly glancing at his opponent. His eyes bore the casual caress, which was their customary expression.
    â€œOne, two, three . . . ,” began Tom McLane, his pistol moving to keep time to the slow measure of his count.
    â€œFour, five, six,” he went on, still in the same calm voice with the heart-breaking pauses between every count.
    The whole frame of Henry McLane seemed to wince and grow weak, but he ground his teeth and remained steadfast on his mark with his eyes narrowing.
    â€œSeven, eight,” continued the steely voice.
    Henry McLane moistened his lips with his tongue, and his eyes wavered sidewise.
    â€œNine!”
    The revolver of Henry McLane exploded into the floor, and he shrank back suddenly against the wall.
    â€œBegin . . . begin over again,” he cried uncertainly. “I . . . I . . . my finger moved.”
    â€œHenry McLane,” pronounced the hollow voice of his father, “I’m beginnin’ to doubt whether or not ye’re my true son. If that pistol had been pointin’ a bit higher, God might’ve had mercy on you, but I wouldn’t!”
    Henry braced himself again to the mark as his father recommenced the counting. His eyes were held as if by a