The very postures of the men seemed to
turn him to stone, a beautiful, marble statue with the moonlight
glistening on the muscles of his perfect shoulders.
At length he stirred. At once a quiver jerked through the tense bodies
of the waiting men, but the white horse had merely stiffened and
raised his head high. Now, with arched neck and flaunting tail he
neighed loudly, as if he asked a question. How could he know, dumb
brute, that what he asked only death could answer?
And as they waited an itching came at the palm of McGurk's hand. It
was not much, just a tingle of the blood. To ease it, he closed his
fingers and found that his hand was moist with cold perspiration.
He began to wonder if his fingers would be slippery on the butt of the
gun. Then he tried covertly to dry them against his shirt. But he
ceased this again, knowing that he must be of hair-trigger alertness
to watch for the stamp of the white horse.
It occurred to him, also, that he was standing on a loose stone which
might wobble when he pulled his gun, and he cursed himself silently
for his hasty folly.
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