"
"You're a false alarm," said Dade bluntly; "you drive me plumb weary."
Before his voice had died away Calumet's hand had flashed to his pistol
butt. Why he did not draw the weapon was a mystery known only to
himself. It might have been because Dade had not moved. Calumet's
lips had tensed over his teeth in a savage snarl; they still held the
snarl when he spoke.
"You'll swallow that," he said. "Do you _sabe_ my idea?"
"Nary swallow," declared Dade. "False alarm goes. I've got you sized
up right."
Calumet's six-shooter came out. His eyes, blazing with a wanton fire,
met Dade's and held them. The youngster's lips whitened, but his eyes
did not waver. Death twitched at Calumet's finger. There was a long
silence. And then Dade spoke.
"Usin' it?" he said.
Into Calumet's blazing eyes came a slow glint of doubt, of reluctant
admiration. His lashes flickered, the blaze died down, he squinted, a
cold, amused smile succeeded the snarl. He laughed shortly, looked at
the pistol, and then slowly jammed it back into the holster.
"You're too good to lose," he said. "I'm savin' you for another time."
"Thanks," said Dade dryly, though the ashen face of him showed how well
he realized his narrow escape. "I reckon we understand each other now.
I can see by the way you yanked out your gun just now and by the way
you got the drop on Taggart yesterday, that you're some on the shoot.
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