"
She raised her hands again, but he avoided her gently and went out into
the street. Wambush stood on the sidewalk a few yards from the door,
one booted foot on the curbstone, the other on the ground. He had
thrown his broad-brimmed hat on the ground, and tossed his long hair
back over his shoulders. His left hand rested on his raised knee, his
right was in the pocket of his short coat.
"Come on, if you ain't too weak-kneed," he jeered, as Westerfelt
appeared on the veranda.
Westerfelt advanced towards Wambush, but when he was within a few feet
of him, Wambush suddenly drew a revolver, cocked it, and deliberately
raised it. Westerfelt stopped and looked straight into Wambush's eyes.
"I'm unarmed," said he; "I never carry a pistol; is that the way you do
your fighting?"
"That's yore lookout, not mine, d----n you!"
Just then Luke Bradley ran up the sidewalk and out on the veranda near
Westerfelt. He had a warning on his lips, but seeing the critical
situation he said nothing. A white, tigerish look came into the face
of Westerfelt. The cords of his neck tightened as he leaned slowly
towards Wambush.
Pages:
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90