He laughed with a grim humor.

"I've heard tell that a snake don't die till sundown--much as you hurt him.

If that's so, an' I don't get to where I c'n get some help, I reckon it'll be a stand off between him an' me as to who's goin' first." A little later he drew Mustard to a halt, sitting very erect in the saddle and fixing his gaze upon a tall cottonwood tree that rose near the trail.

His heart was racing madly, and in spite of his efforts, he felt himself swaying from side to side.

He had often seen a rattler doing that--flat, ugly head raised above his coiled body, forked tongue shooting out, his venomous eyes glittering, the head and the part of the body rising above the coils swaying gracefully back and forth.
Yes, gracefully, for in spite of his hideous aspect, there was a certain horrible ease of movement about a rattler--a slippery, sinuous motion that partly revealed reserve strength, and hinted at repressed energy.
Many times, while watching them, he had been fascinated by their grace, and now, sitting in the saddle, he caught himself wondering if the influence of a bite were great enough to cause the person bitten to imitate the snake.