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 by this general misreading of outward signs, by taxing a truly generous soul with impositions, by mistaking for cowardice a man's respect for order and his love for peace. This cool, deep current, once lashed to fury by cumulative wrongs, sweeps everything aside in striking for the justice which the mean oppression of cowards has denied.

That pause was the turning point in Bill Dunham's life. There sternness replaced ingenuous simplicity, and righteous resentment rose in him like a flood. He swung a jolt to the pestering cowboy's jaw that piled him off the narrow sidewalk, down among the horses lined up at the hitching-rack.

There was a commotion among the horses, a rising of dust from their trampling. The lean cowboy came scrambling out of it, clawing for his gun. His friends scattered to give him room, leaving Bill Dunham in the bright light of the window lamp alone.

Dunham ripped the row of coat buttons open with one quick pass of the left hand, baring the butt of his gun to the right. He stood with his knees crooked a little, like a man waiting an explosion, or a brakeman on top of a car, making no defensive move until the cowboy had snaked his gun from the scabbard. The fellow was throwing it down on him when Dunham slung his gun and snapped a single shot.

The cowboy's bullet struck the store window, some little distance to Dunham's left, his intention unaltered but his aim ruined by the surprising celerity of the fellow he had taken for an innocent who had been permitted to live only to make laughter for the elect.