The pain in the marshal's face became a ghastly thing to see. At last he could speak.
"A sneak always lies well," he replied, as he sneered at Lanning.
He went on, while Andrew sat shivering with passion. "And any fool can get in a lucky shot now and then. But, when I'm out of this, I'll hunt you down again and I'll plant you full of lead, my son! You can lay to that!" The hard breathing of Andrew gradually subsided.
"It won't work, Dozier," he said quietly. "You can't make me mad enough to shoot a man who's down. You can't make me murder you."
The marshal closed his eyes again, while his breathing was beginning to grow fainter, and there was an unpleasant rattle in the hollow of his throat. Andrew went into the next room.
"Scottie," he said, "will you let me have your flask?" Scottie smiled at him.
"Not for what you'd use it for, Lanning," he said.
Andrew picked up a cup and shoved it across the table.
"Pour a little whisky in that, please," he said.
Scottie looked up and studied him. Then he tipped his flask and poured a thin stream into the cup until it was half full. Andrew went back toward the door, the cup in his left hand. He backed up, keeping his face steadily toward the four, and kicked open the door behind him.
War, he knew, had been declared. Then he raised the marshal's head and gave him a sip of the fiery stuff. It cleared the face of the wounded man.
Then Andrew rolled down his blankets before the door, braced a small stick against it, so that the sound would be sure to waken him if any one tried to enter, and laid down for the night. He was almost asleep
