In every doorway stood a man cautiously
looking on, and in a hotel window he saw a woman's frightened
face. It was so still that it seemed impossible that a tragedy
could be imminent, and yet, while he was trying to take the
conditions in, one of the quarrelling men--Bad Rufe Tolliver--
whipped out his revolver and before he could level it, a Falin
struck the muzzle of a pistol into his back. Another Tolliver
flashed his weapon on the Falin. This Tolliver was covered by
another Falin and in so many flashes of lightning the eight men in
front of him were covering each other--every man afraid to be the
first to shoot, since he knew that the flash of his own pistol
meant instantaneous death for him. As Hale shrank back, he pushed
against somebody who thrust him aside. It was the judge:
"Why don't somebody shoot?" he asked sarcastically. "You're a
purty set o' fools, ain't you? I want you all to stop this damned
foolishness. Now when I give the word I want you, Jim Falin and
Rufe Tolliver thar, to drap yer guns."
Already Rufe was grinning like a devil over the absurdity of the
situation.
"Now!" said the judge, and the two guns were dropped.
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