Gradually he slowed his walk, then halted.

A good twenty-five paces separated the men.
"Won't nothin' make you draw, you--!" he shouted, fiercely.
"I'm waitin' on you, Cal," replied Duane.
Bain's right hand stiffened--moved.

Duane threw his gun as a boy throws a ball underhand--a draw his father had taught him.

He pulled twice, his shots almost as one.

Bain's big Colt boomed while it was pointed downward and he was falling.