He made no sound in reply, but drove his canoe shoreward with quicker strokes.

It was evident he would effect his landing near the lower end of the spit, for now he was within hearing distance, and driving closer every instant.
Necia heard the gambler call: "Sheer off, Doret! You can't land here!" She saw a gun in Runnion's hand, and a terrible, sickening fear swept over her, for he was slowly walking down the spit, keeping abreast of the canoe as it drifted.

She could see exactly what would happen: no man could disembark against the will of an armed marksman, and if Poleon slackened his stroke, or stopped it to exchange his paddle for a weapon, the current would carry him past; in addition, he would have to fire from a rocking paper shell harried by a boiling current, whereas the other man stood flat upon his feet.
"Keep away or I'll fire!" threatened Runnion again; and she screamed, "Don't try it, Poleon, he'll kill you!" At her words Runnion raised his weapon and fired.

She heard the woods behind reverberate with the echoes like a sounding-board, saw the white spurt of smoke and the skitter of the bullet as it went wide.

It was a long shot, and had been fired as a final warning; but Doret made no outcry, nor did he cease coming; instead, his paddle clove the water with the same steady strokes that took every ounce of effort in his body.