It's fear that sends the chill up and down your blood. It's fear that
makes you think back to your murders, one by one. McGurk, you're done
for. You're through. You're ready for the discard. I'm not going to
kill you. I've thought of a finer hell than death, and that is to live
as you shall live. I've beaten you, McGurk, beaten you fairly on the
draw, and I've broken your heart by doing it. The next time you face a
man you'll begin to think--you'll begin to remember how one other man
beat you at the draw. And that wonder, McGurk, will make your hand
freeze to your side, as you've made the hands of other men before me
freeze. D'you understand?"
The lips of McGurk parted. The whisper of his dry panting reached
Pierre, and the devil in him smiled.
"In six weeks, McGurk, you'll be finished. Now get out!"
And pace by pace McGurk drew back, with his face still toward Pierre.
The latter cried: "Wait. Are you going to leave your gun?"
Only the steady retreat continued.
"And go unarmed through the mountains? What will men say when they see
McGurk with an empty holster?"
But the outlaw had passed out of view beyond the corner of one of the
monster boulders.
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