For he made a striking figure as he stood there. He was rigid, alert; he
seemed to dominate every man that faced him, that stood within sound of
his voice. He had been talking when Ruth entered; he was still talking,
unaware of her presence.
His voice was pitched high, it carried a note of defiance; it was
vibrant with passion. Fascinated by the change in him, Ruth stood
motionless, listening.
"So that's what you brought me here for?" he said, his voice shaking
with rage. He was looking at Singleton and the man who stood near the
latter. "You brought me here because you wanted to be sure there'd be
enough of you to down me. Well, damn you--get goin!"
His voice rose to a screech of awful rage; and while it still resounded
through the room he dropped his right hand and dragged at the pistol at
his hip.
It was done so swiftly that Ruth could make no movement to interfere.
And yet as swiftly as her father's hand had dropped to the holster at
his side, the dark-faced man who stood near Singleton anticipated the
movement. His right hand moved like a streak of light. It went down,
then up again with the same motion. The air rocked with a crashing
report, mingled with Ruth's scream of terror. And Hamlin's gun loosened
in his hand, his knees doubled and he tumbled headlong, to fall face
down at the feet of the dark-faced man who stood, sneering, some
blue-white smoke curling upward in mocking laziness from the muzzle of
his pistol.
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