Not the hands alone but the entire bodies, every muscle leaping into
action in a swiftness too great, too accurate for it to have been fully
appreciated had there been a third man to see. Thornton slipped sideways
from his chair, dropping to his knees upon the floor, and his two hands
flashed downward. The left hand sped to the opening at the left hip of
his chaps, and to the pocket beneath; the right hand into the loose band
at his stomach. And the hands seemed not to have disappeared for a
fraction of a second when they were flung out in front of him, and two
heavy double action revolvers looked squarely into Comstock's smiling
face.
Comstock had scarcely seemed to move. He still sat loosely in his chair,
its front legs tilted back supported by his heels. But his hands had
gone their swift, unerring way to the pockets of his coat, and into the
barrels of the revolvers looked the blue steel barrels of two big
automatics. And both men knew that, had this been no play, but deadly
earnest, there would not have been the tenth of a second between the
pistol shots.
"Pretty nearly an even break," laughed Comstock, dropping his guns back
into his pockets.
Thornton rose and stood frowning down into the uplifted eyes of his
visitor.
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