why hadn't she put her arms about him last night and told him … surely he would be killed now. And he was not even firing back. Because he would be afraid that it might be Beatrice and not Embry that his bullet found!
Embry had slipped fresh cartridges into his gun, was holding his shots now, was asking himself what Beatrice had asked before him; was Steele down already. And then came Steele's answer.
He had drawn back, had gathered all of the power lying in his big bulk, had thrown himself forward at the door. And, as he struck, the door flew from its hinges, as most doors would have done under the impact of his wrath-impelled body, cracked and snapped back against the wall.
But he himself was overbalanced by his own momentum, and as he straightened up Joe Embry had drawn back a step, had lifted his revolver so that the muzzle was not four feet from Steele's head … had fired! And, thanks to a broken ax handle in two tense white hands, the bullet went ripping into the boards of the floor, and the gun itself flew from Embry's grasp.
"Damn you!" cried Embry then. And threw himself upon Steele.
Many a time had Beatrice heard Bill Steele laugh. But never was she to forget the sound of his laugh now. He had seen, had marked Embry's springing forward and had thrown down his own gun, laughing! … She did not know that a man could laugh like that! Laugh for the sheer, pure joy of being able to put out his hands and find with them the man he wanted in them!
