Jubilee's right hand still hung to the horn. He thought, "That'swho followed me," and then he added, "It's eighty-five feet as Ionce paced it." There could be no question of Gasteen's purpose.This was war and no quarter to any man; other than that, Gasteen'srigidity was a signal plain as day. Men stood so when they thoughtof killing or being killed. Gasteen's lips moved. Some sound wasplucked away by the racing wind, and some word was framed on hislong lips and lost identity behind the silvering screen of rain.Jubilee said conversationally, "It might as well be now," and lethis hand drop from the saddle horn. It plunged on down, struck thegun butt and recoiled with it. Gasteen's body broke at the middle,his own arm raced backward. Saloon light raced fragmentarily alongthe dark metal barrel of his gun, and it was his first shot thatbeat the wind and the rain apart and sent a cracking echo acrossthe four sides of the square. Clotted mud slashed Jubilee's leg, afact only dimly recorded as his eyes took a long sight. Hisanswering fire broke the steady roar coming out of the sky, and hisslug made a clean breach of that taut figure across the square. Itshook Gasteen, it blasted the life out of Gasteen. The man was deadeven as he made a half-turn and collapsed on the dark walk.
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