His sleek smile arrested her. He was standing with his feet
apart, his hands clasped lightly behind his back, as natty and as
well groomed as was his wont.
"Ah, make the most of what ye yet may spend,
Before ye, too, into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans
End!"
he misquoted, with a sneer; and immediately interrupted his irony
to give way to one of his sudden blind rages.
With incredible swiftness his right hand moved forward and up,
catching revolver from scabbard as it rose. But by a fraction of
a second his purpose had been anticipated. A closed fist shot
forward to the salient jaw in time to fling the bullets into the
ceiling. An arm encircled the outlaw's neck, and flung him
backward down the stairs. The railing broke his fall, and on it
his body slid downward, the weapon falling from his hand. He
pulled himself together at the foot of the stairs, crouched for
an upward rush, but changed his mind instantly. The young officer
who had flung him down had him covered with his own six-shooter.
He could hear footsteps running toward him, and he knew that in a
few seconds he would be in the hands of the soldiers.
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