Kinney kept it there for a second, while over his face crept an expression of blank stupefaction. Rand's second bullet had shattered the index finger of Kinney's left hand, and when he looked at it, his mouth agape with the furious curses that issued from it, the end of the finger was hanging by a shred from the middle joint.
It seemed to the onlookers that Rand would now kill the gunfighter. And Kinney, too, seemed to be convinced he would get no mercy from Rand, for though he had brought the injured hand around and was holding it crossed over his body and under his right arm, he braced his body for the shock of Rand's bullet—which he expected would come instantly.
Chapter XII. Victory — and Defeat
FOR the space of many seconds there was a tense ; strained, expectant silence. Plainly, Rand was going to shoot again, for his blazing eyes and his sneering, merciless grin told every man who watched him that the mania of murder was in his heart.
And then the tension lessened, and men began to breathe again. For Rand began to relax, slowly, as though the forces in him were battling mightily for supremacy. The sneer on his lips was softened by a sarcastic grin, which grew broader and broader, finally becoming amused contempt as he stepped close to the gun-fighter.
"I reckon I ain't in a killin' mood today, Kinney," he said. "Mebbe it's because killin' a shorthorn like you would be plain murder. You're sure tenderfoot with a gun. I'm lettin' you off — with your smashed gun an' no finger on your left hand. I reckon your two-gun days don't go any more. But if you've still got an idea that you can sling your right gun faster than I can sling mine, why, you come gunnin' for me again some day, an' I'll put your right hand out of business!"
He left Kinney — who ran into the Gilt Edge to have his finger attended to — and strode down the street to a little frame building over which hung a sign:
SHERIFF
He found Webster seated at his desk, pale, and breathing fast; and as he stepped inside he grinned bitterly at the official and walked close to him.
He stood silent, while Webster read the bill of sale that Rand threw upon the desk. Then, when Webster finished reading and sat staring straight ahead of him at the wall, Rand spoke:
"You hard on first offenders, Webster?"
Webster looked up, met Rand's eyes, shivered, and looked down again, to fumble with some papers on the idesk top.
"I'm givin' every man a second chance," he said slowly.
"That's me," declared Rand, grinning coldly at Webster, who met the gaze and cringed from it; "I wouldn't be hard on a first offender. But if a man crowds me — after I give him his chance to play square with me — I'd be a heap eager to put him where he couldn't bother me any more. Do you reckon to understand them principles?"
"Plenty," mumbled Webster.
Leaving the sheriff staring after him, Rand stepped out into the street and walked back to where he had encountered Kinney. A group of men at the hitching rail fell silent at his approach, though several grinned at him.
"Seen Link Compton?" he inquired of one of the men in the group.
"He's in there — takin' care of Kinney's finger, I reckon," said the man, pointing to the Gilt Edge.
Rand entered the saloon. In a rear room—the dance-hall— he found Kinney and several men — one of them bandaging the man's finger. Link Compton was standing near; and upon the stairway were several women — among them Lucia Morell, who, when she met Rand's eye, flashed an admiring smile at him.
Compton had watched the coming of Rand, though he had pretended ignorance. But when he saw Rand walking toward him, he smiled blandly and folded his arms over his chest.
Rand stepped close to him, and with his hands on his hips, and an icy glitter in his eyes, said slowly and distinctly :
"You takin' Kinney's end of this?"
Compton's eyes quickened; a flush stole up over his collar and suffused his neck and face. His smile, as he gazed with level eyes at Rand, was coldly contemptuous.
"Bah!" he said. "What for? You make me sick with your damned dramatics. Why didn't you kill Kinney? You had him. You're slick with a gun, but you haven't the guts to back it up! Get away from me!" He deliberately turned his back to Rand.
He wheeled again, though, slowly, his body stiffening, when he felt the muzzle of one of Rand's guns denting his right side above the hip. And he moved his head slightly, to look into Rand's blazing eyes, close to his own.
It seemed that this time death surely was hovering near; for death was in Rand's eyes, in his stiffened muscles, in the set of his lips, and in the rigid arm that held the gun against Compton's side.
But Compton grinned. It was a pallid grin — without mirth, without expression of any kind—a mere mechanical grimace. And yet it told every man in the room that Compton was not afraid; it betrayed the man's iron self-control, his contempt of danger, his absolute fearlessness. Also, it was convincing evidence of his conviction, stated previously, to the effect that Rand had not the courage to kill.
"You're still here—eh?" he said as he looked into Rand's eyes, his own becoming expressive of mockery when he saw that the other's passions were already beginning to subside. "Still here — and still tryin' to be dramatic. Pull the trigger, and be damned!" And again he turned his back, to begin talking with a man who stood near him, ignoring Rand completely.
Rand stood, gun in hand, for a short space — though the time seemed longer to the men in the room, who were watching him. For it seemed to the men that Rand would shoot. And then lungs sighed in process of deflation, and men began to look at one another again.
For they began to understand that Rand would not shoot. They saw the passion leave his face; they watched him, noting the old sarcastic smile returning, to wreathe his lips. Then he sheathed his gun, looked coldly around the room, his gaze resting nowhere, but convincing every man in the room that it had rested upon all.
There was no sound in the room as Rand walked to the front door and stepped down into the street. Men who had congregated around the front door made room for him as he went out. He spoke to none of the men on the outside. Instead, silent, frowning, his eyes reflecting the terrific emotions that seethed within him, he mounted Midnight and sent him thundering over the plains toward the basin in which he had left Larry Redfern — away from the scene of the defeat of the inherited paternal passions that had driven him to town — away from the scene of the victory that had been won by his mother's memory.
Chapter XIII. Seddon Explains
AMOS SEDDON had not gone to town upon the forbidden day. Nor had he left the vicinity of the ranchhouse. Once, when standing on the porch, he had seen a Bar S puncher riding toward the house, and he had gone inside, to seat himself glumly in a chair, sending out word by Eleanor that he was "too sick to see anybody."
And Seddon was sick, for the recollection of the incident of the morning remained vivid in his memory. He still felt the terrible nausea which had afflicted him when Rand's bullet had struck his pipe. And he spent much of his time mentally reviewing the incident, and thanking his God that Rand's mood had been grimly playful instead of murderous.
Seddon refused to reply to any of Eleanor's questions regarding the incident of the shooting; he would offer no explanation beyond the gruff comment that "Rand's always pullin' off deals like that — he thinks he's jokin'."
But