which had carelessly hung from his coat lapel was a blur. Those who had surged out to surround him shrank back when they saw a cold, impersonal eye of blue-black steel swinging in a slow arc at the propulsion of Original's hand, saw the crooked thumb which held back the hammer so tenuously. The man who faced them was in a crouch, head down-drawn between muscular shoulders, eyes narrowed to the hair trigger of alertness. His teeth showed in a curious grin. Slowly, slowly that hand directing the cold eye of steel swung from the hip; that hypnotic black hole at the gun's end seemed alive,—seemed coldly and casually to be selecting a man who should be first to die.
"Boys," spoke Original, "there 'll be quite a crowd go with me—all pals in hell together. Who 's first?"
In a flash he had mastered the mob. Original sensed this; also he realized how brief would be his victory.
"Jim Hanscomb"—he addressed the giant who carried on his shoulder the near end of the corral pole, and his revolver's snout emphasized the selection beyond chance of equivocation—"Jim Hanscomb, you drop that pole—now!"
