Moreover, there was a soft voice from behind, and he remembered Diaz.
All this had taken place in the length of time that it takes a heavy body to totter on the brink of a precipice or a cat to regain its feet after a fall.

After the voice of Diaz there was a sway through the room, a pulse of silence, and then three hands shot for their hips--Pierre, Diaz, and Hurley.
No stop-watch could have caught the differing lengths of time which each required for the draw.

The muzzle of Hurley's revolver was not clear of the holster--the gun of Diaz was nearly at the level when Pierre's weapon exploded at his hip.

The bullet cut through the wrist of Hurley.

Never again would that slender, supple hand fly over the cards, doing things other than they seemed.