Mr. Gainor had remained with his hand raised during
this outbreak. Now he turned to Terry.
“You have heard?” he said. “I
think the sheriff is going quite a way toward you,
Mr. Colby.”
“Hollis!” gasped Terry. “Hollis
is the name, sir!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Gainor.
“Mr. Hollis it is! Gentlemen, I assure
you that I feel for you both. It seems, however,
to be one of those unfortunate affairs when the mind
must stop its debate and physical action must take
up its proper place. I lament the necessity, but
I admit it, even though the law does not admit it.
But there are unwritten laws, sirs, unwritten laws
which I for one consider among the holies of holies.”
Palpably the old man was enjoying every minute of
his own talk. It was not his first affair of
this nature. He came out of an early and more
courtly generation where men drank together in the
evening by firelight and carved one another in the
morning with glimmering bowie knives.
“You are both,” he protested, “dear
to me. I esteem you both as men and as good citizens.
And I have done my best to open the way for peaceful
negotiations toward an understanding. It seems
that I have failed. Very well, sirs. Then
it must be battle. You are both armed? With
revolvers?”
“Nacher’ly,” said the sheriff, and
spat accurately at a blaze on the tree trunk beside
him. He had grown very quiet.
“I am armed,” said Terry calmly, “with
a revolver.”
“Very good.”
The hand of Gainor glided into his bosom and came
forth bearing a white handkerchief. His right
hand slid into his coat and came forth likewise—
bearing a long revolver.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “the first
man to disobey my directions I shall shoot down unquestioningly,
like a dog. I give you my solemn word for it!”
And his eye informed them that he would enjoy the
job.
He continued smoothly: “This contest shall
accord with the only terms by which a duel with guns
can be properly fought. You will stand back to
back with your guns not displayed, but in your clothes.
At my word you will start walking in the opposite
directions until my command ‘Turn!’ and
at this command you will wheel, draw your guns, and
fire until one man falls—or both!”
He sent his revolver through a peculiar, twirling
motion and shook back his long white hair.
“Ready, gentlemen, and God defend the right!”
The talk was fitful in the living room. Elizabeth
Cornish did her best to revive the happiness of her
guests, but she herself was a prey to the same subdued
excitement which showed in the faces of the others.
A restraint had been taken away by the disappearance
of both the storm centers of the dinner—the
sheriff and Terry. Therefore it was possible
to talk freely. And people talked. But not
loudly. They were prone to gather in little familiar
groups and discuss in a whisper how Terry had risen
and spoken before them. Now and then someone,
for the sake of politeness, strove to open a general
theme of conversation, but it died away like a ripple
on a placid pond.
