head with the clubbed gun.
"Go to hell and git 'em!" said Fred, jamping back as Findlay swung the gun.
Barrett came running, shouting something to Findlay that neither of them seemed to understand. Fred had his pistol out, and was holding Findlay off with it, that in his eyes which told the rustler the once-despised wrangler had grown to be a man.
"You ain't my meat, but I'll kill you if you turn a hair!" said Fred. "There's your man! Go and meet him if you've got the guts in you!"
Barrett had reached the road, coming back to it some twenty yards or more from the point where Grubb and Findlay were playing their little preliminary scene in the greater tragedy to come. He tossed Findlay's gun that he had carried back with him into the road, and backed away, plainly laying down the terms of his challenge by his act.
"Look at that, you woman-bluffer!" said Fred. "He told you he'd give you a man's chance! If you're a man, go and take him up!"
Findlay threw down the shotgun and started on the run for his pistol in the road. Barrett backed off as he came, hand on his own gun. He did not draw it, it being his determination to take no advantage that might be charged to his discredit, should chance favor him in that fight. Not more than fifty feet lay between the two men when Findlay stopped to pick up his gun.
As Findlay stooped to pick up the gun, he scraped his left hand violently through the dust which padded the road thickly, raising a sudden and confusing cloud.
