THE MAN WHO TOOK WATER
moistened his dry lips. It was a horrible hour.
Each of these men had slain many: both had defied the law and put it in the ditch. To both of them a thousand bowed down. The rumour of their deeds had spread across the south. They were heard of from Galveston to El Paso. The life they led tried them high. They came to a dreadful final test this night, and something, I knew not what, seemed to tell me that there could be no such tragedy as this.
They appeared equally matched. I heard old Webb sigh; his eyes were almost bolting from his head. Tom, as I knew, had plenty of courage. I heard that his hand trembled a little as he put a glass down behind him. The silence of the two who fought was strange and dreadful. Pillsbury, who was no chicken, spoke to me about it afterwards. First I watched one and then the other. If I had pulled a gun on them neither would have seen me move. For these two the whole world was lost. They saw nothing but each other's eyes, perhaps each other's deep and inward mind.
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