I quit you.
I'm done!" Their gray, passion-corded faces were still as stones.
"Gentlemen," I called in clear, high, far-reaching voice, the intonation
of authority, "you're both done!"
They wheeled to confront me, to see my leveled gun. "Don't move! Not a
muscle! Not a finger!" I warned. Sampson read what Wright had not the
mind to read. His face turned paler gray, to ashen.
"What d'ye mean?" yelled Wright fiercely, shrilly. It was not in him to
obey my command, to see impending death. All quivering and strung, yet
with perfect control, I raised my left hand to turn back a lapel of my
open vest. The silver shield flashed brightly.
"United States deputy marshal in service of Ranger Steele!"
Wright howled like a dog. With barbarous and insane fury, with sheer,
impotent folly, he swept a clawing hand for his gun. My shot broke his
action as it cut short his life. Before Wright even tottered, before he
loosed the gun, Sampson leaped behind him, clasped him with his left
arm, quick as lightning jerked the gun from both clutching fingers and
sheath. I shot at Sampson, then again, then a third time. All my bullets
sped into the upheld nodding Wright. Sampson had protected himself with
the body of the dead man.
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