The sidelong,
covetous glance that passed between them bespoke what was in their
minds. And from that time on the four of us were like so many
open-headed casks of powder sitting by a fire; sooner or later a spark
would bring the explosion. We had them at a disadvantage trotting across
the level upland, Gregory in the lead and Hicks sandwiched between Mac
and myself--until MacRae's horse planted his foreleg to the knee in an
old badger-hole hidden under a rank accumulation of grass. The black
pitched forward so suddenly that Mac had no time to swing clear, and as
he went down under the horse Gregory's agile brain grasped the
opportunity of the situation, and his gun flashed out of its scabbard.
My hand flew to mine as I jerked the dun up short, but I wasn't fast
enough--and Hicks was too close. It was a trilogy of gun-drawing.
Gregory drew his and fired at MacRae with the devilish quickness of a
striking rattler; I drew with intent to get Mr. Gregory; and Hicks drew
his and slapped me over the head with it, even as my finger curled on
the trigger. My gun went off, I know--afterward I had a dim recollection
of a faint report--but whether the bullet went whistling into the blue
above or buried itself in the broad bosom of the Territory, I can't say.
Things ceased to happen, right then and there, so far as I was
concerned.
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