His right hand hung poised and moveless just above the butt of his gun; his whole posture was that of one in the midst of an action, suspended there, frozen to stone.

They waited for that poised hand to drop, for the slender fingers to clutch the butt of the gun, for the convulsive jerk that would bring out the gleaming barrel, the explosion, the spurt of smoke, and Buck Daniels lurching forward to his face on the floor.
But that hand did not move; and Buck Daniels?
Standing there with his back to the suspended death behind him, he drew out Durham and brown papers, without haste, rolled a cigarette, and reached to a hip pocket.
At that move Dan Barry started.

His hand darted down and fastened on his gun, and he leaned forward in his chair with the yellow glimmering light flaring up in his eyes.

But the hand of Buck Daniels came out from his hip bearing a match.

He raised his leg, scratched the match, there was a blue spurt of flame, and Buck calmly lighted his cigarette and started towards the door, sauntering.
The instant the swinging doors closed Barry started from his chair with a strange cry--none of them had ever heard the like from human lips--for there was grief in it, and above all there was a deadly eagerness.