“Jim Galloway, you and I have bucked each other for a long time.  I guess it’s in the cards that one of us will get the other some day.  Why not right now and end the whole damned thing?—­When I’m up against a man as I am against you I like to make it my business to know just how much sand has filtered into his make-up.  You’d kill me if you had the chance and weren’t afraid to do it, wouldn’t you?”

“If I had the chance,” returned Galloway as coolly, though a spot of color showed under the thick tan of his cheek.  “And I’ll get it some day.”

“If you’ve got the sand,” said Norton, “you don’t have to wait!”

“What do you mean?” snapped Galloway sharply.

Norton’s answer lay in a gesture.  Always keeping such a rein on his horse that he faced Galloway and kept him at his right, he lifted the hand which had been hanging close to his gun.  Slowly, inch by inch, his eyes hard and watchful upon Galloway’s eyes, he raised his hand.  Understanding leaped into Galloway’s prominent eyes; it seemed that he had stopped breathing; surely the hairy fingers upon the cantle of his saddle had separated a little, his hand growing to resemble a tarantula preparing for its brief spring.

Steadily, slowly, the sheriff’s hand rose in the air, brought upward and outward in an arc as his arm was held stiff, as high as his shoulder now, now at last lifted high above his head.  And all of the time his eyes rested bright and hard and watchful upon Jim Galloway’s, filled at once with challenge and recklessness . . . and certainty of himself.

Galloway’s right hand had stirred the slight fraction of an inch, his fingers were rigid and still stood apart.  As he sat, twisted about in his saddle, his hand had about seven inches to travel to find the gun in his hip pocket.  Since, when they first met, he had thrown his big body to one side, his left boot loose in its stirrup while his weight rested upon his right leg, his gun pocket was clear of the saddle, to be reached in a flash.

“You’ll never get another chance like this, Galloway,” said Norton crisply.  “I’d say, at a guess, that my hand has about eight times as far to travel as yours.  You wanted an even break; you’ve got more than that.  But you’ll never get more than one shot.  Now, it’s up to you.”

“Before we start anything,” began Galloway.  But Norton cut him short.

“I am not fool enough to hold my hand up like this until the blood runs out of my fingers.  You’ve got your chance; take it or leave it, but don’t ask for half an hour’s option on it.”

Swift changing lights were in Galloway’s eyes.  But his thoughts were not to be read.  That he was tempted by his opportunity was clear; that he understood the full sense underlying the words, “You’ll never get more than one shot,” was equally obvious.  That shot, if it were not to be his last act in this world, must be the accurate result of one lightning gesture; his hand must find his gun, close about the grip, draw, and fire with the one absolutely certain movement.  For the look in Rod Norton’s eyes was for any man to read.