Such a moan
came from them as when many men catch their breath with pain, and with a
simultaneous movement those who were in line with Buck Daniels and Barry
leaped back against the bar on one side and against the wall on the
other. Their eyes, fascinated, held on the face of Barry, and they saw
the pale outline which the fingers of Daniels had left on the cheek of
the other. But if horror was the first thing they felt, amazement was
the next. For Dan Barry sat bolt erect in his chair, staring in an
astonishment too great for words. His right hand hung poised and
moveless just above the butt of his gun; his whole posture was that of
one in the midst of an action, suspended there, frozen to stone. They
waited for that poised hand to drop, for the slender fingers to clutch
the butt of the gun, for the convulsive jerk that would bring out the
gleaming barrel, the explosion, the spurt of smoke, and Buck Daniels
lurching forward to his face on the floor.
But that hand did not move; and Buck Daniels? Standing there with his
back to the suspended death behind him, he drew out Durham and brown
papers, without haste, rolled a cigarette, and reached to a hip pocket.
At that move Dan Barry started. His hand darted down and fastened on his
gun, and he leaned forward in his chair with the yellow glimmering light
flaring up in his eyes. But the hand of Buck Daniels came out from his
hip bearing a match. He raised his leg, scratched the match, there was a
blue spurt of flame, and Buck calmly lighted his cigarette and started
towards the door, sauntering.
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