He could not do it. Neither will nor muscles would respond to the logical conviction of his mind that he was entitled to any advantage he could get. To whip out his gun and fire might be fair. He had no trouble in deciding that it was. But if luck were with him--if he came out alive from the duel--how could he explain why he had shot down without warning the man who was sheltering him from the blizzard? For that matter, how could he justify it to himself in the years to come? A moral certainty was not enough. He must wait until he _knew_, until the old killer made that lightning move which would give him just the vantage-ground Tug was denying himself. All that Tug could do was watch him, every nerve keyed and muscle tensed, or bring the struggle to immediate issue. He came, suddenly, clearly, to the end of doubt. “Time I was going,” he said, and his voice rang clear. “Going where?” Prowers’s hand stopped caressing his unshaven chin and fell, almost too casually, to his side. They glared at each other, tense, crouched, eyes narrowed and unwinking. Duels are fought and lost in that preliminary battle of locked eyes which precedes the short, sharp stabbings of the cartridge explosions. Soul searches soul for the temper of the foe’s courage. Neither gaze wavered. Each found the other stark, indomitable. The odds were heavily in favor of the old cattleman. He was a practiced gunman. Quicker than the eye could follow would come the upsweep of his arm. He could fire from the hip without taking aim. Nobody in the county could empty a revolver faster than he. But the younger man had one advantage. He had disarranged Prowers’s plans by taking the initiative, by forcing the killer’s hand. This was unexpected. It disturbed Jake the least in the world. His opponents usually dodged a crisis that would lead to conflict. A cold blast beat into the house. In the open doorway stood a man, the range rider Black. Both men stared at him silently. Each knew that his coming had changed the conditions of the equation. Under the blue cheek of the newcomer a quid of tobacco stood out. It was impossible to tell from his impassive face how much or how little of the situation he guessed. “Ran outa smokin’,” he said. “Thought I’d drap over an’ have you loan me the makin’s.” He had closed the door. Now he shuffled forward to the fire and with a charred stick knocked the snow from his webs. “A sure enough rip-snorter, if any one asks you,” he continued mildly by way of comment on the weather. “Don’t know as I recall any storm wuss while it lasted. I seen longer ones, unless this ’un ’s jest gatherin’ second wind.” Tug drew a deep breath of relief and eased down. Red tragedy had been hovering in the gathering shadows of the room. It was there no longer. The blessed homely commonplace of life had entered with the lank homesteader and his need of “the makin’s.”