For a moment Conniston thought
that in that wild, headlong scramble for safety he saw the end of the
thing. And almost before the thought was formed he knew better.
The men were talking sullenly. He could hear their angry, snarling
voices, no longer shouting, but low-pitched. He began to make out
their faces and saw nowhere an expression of fear, everywhere black
wrath, restless fury. They no longer moved backward, but stood their
ground, muttering. In a moment--he knew what would happen. He could
read it in their faces, could sense it in their low, rumbling tones.
And so he shouted to them again, his voice ringing clear above their
mutterings.
"I drop the first man that takes a step this way!"
Tense, anxious, watchful, he waited. He saw hesitation, but saw, too,
that the hesitation was momentary, that it would be followed by a
blind rush if he could not drive fear into their hearts. And he
realized with a sick sinking of his own heart that there was little
fear in men like these.
"It looks like an end of things for Greek Conniston," he muttered,
dully.
His watchful eyes saw a little commotion upon the fringe of the knot
of men who had moved a little toward the tent. He saw one of the men
step out quickly and raise a big revolver. The man, as he lifted the
revolver, fired, not seeming to aim. The bullet struck one of the
front wheels of Conniston's wagon.
Pages:
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268