Part 23 (1/2)
”This'll surprise him,” he chuckled.
”Better not,” murmured Sinclair.
”Why not?”
”Might land on his face and hurt him.”
”It won't hurt him bad. Besides, kids ought to learn not to sleep in the daytime. Ain't a good idea any way you look at it. Puts fog in the head.”
He poised the stone.
”You might hit his eye, you see,” said Sinclair.
”Leave that to me!”
But, as his arm twisted back for the throw, the hand of Sinclair flashed out and lean fingers crushed the wrist of Cartwright. Yet Sinclair's voice was still soft.
”Better not,” he said.
They sat confronting each other for a moment. The stone dropped from the numbed fingers of Cartwright, and Sinclair released his wrist.
Their characters were more easily read in the crisis. Cartwright's face flushed, and a purple vein ran down his forehead between the eyes.
Sinclair turned pale. He seemed, indeed, almost afraid, and apparently Cartwright took his cue from the pallor.
”I see,” he said sneeringly. ”You got your guns on. Is that it?”
Sinclair slipped off the cartridge belt.
”Do I look better to you now?”
”A pile better,” said Cartwright.
They rose, still confronting each other. It was strange how swiftly they had plunged into strife.
”I guess you'll be rolling along, Cartwright.”
”Nope. I guess I like it tolerable well under this here tree.”
”Except that I come here first, partner.”
”And maybe you'll be the first to leave.”
”I'd have to be persuaded a pile.”
”How's this to start you along?”
He flicked the back of his hand across the lips of Sinclair, and then sprang back as far as his long legs would carry him. So doing, the first leap of Sinclair missed him, and when the cowpuncher turned he was met with a stunning blow on the side of the head.
At once the blind anger faded from the eyes of Riley. By the weight of that first blow he knew that he had encountered a worthy foeman, and by the position of Cartwright he could tell that he had met a confident one. The big fellow was perfectly poised, with his weight well back on his right foot, his left foot feeling his way over the rough ground as he advanced, always collected for a heavy blow, or for a leap in any direction. He carried his guard high, with apparent contempt for an attack on his body, after the manner of a practiced boxer.