The white horse pawed the rocks as though impatient to be gone.
"Listen," said Pierre, "your horse grows restive. Suppose we stand
here--it's a convenient distance apart--and wait with our arms folded
for the next time the white horse paws the rocks, because when I kill
you, McGurk, I want you to die knowing that another man was faster on
the draw and straighter with his bullets than you are. D'you see?"
He could not have spoken with a more formal politeness if he had been
asking the other to pass first through the door of a dining-room. The
wonder of McGurk grew and the sweat on his forehead seemed to be
spreading a chill through his entire body. He said: "I see. You
trust all to the cross, eh, Pierre? The little cross under your neck?"
"It's gone," said Pierre le Rouge. "Why should I use it against a
night rider, McGurk? Are you ready?"
And McGurk, not trusting his voice for some strange reason, nodded.
The two folded their arms.
But the white horse which had been pawing the stones only a moment
before was now unusually quiet.
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