Then for him--for me--for Hoden--there was the truth in Wright's working passion-blackened face.
Wright jerked, moved, meant to draw.

But how slow! Steele lunged forward.

His long arm swept up.
And Wright staggered backward, knocking table and chairs, to fall hard, in a half-sitting posture, against the wall.
"Don't draw!" warned Steele.
"Wright, get away from your gun!" yelled the cowboy Brick.
But Wright was crazed by fury.

He tugged at his hip, his face corded with purple welts, malignant, murderous, while he got to his feet.
I was about to leap through the door when Steele shot.

Wright's gun went ringing to the floor.
Like a beast in pain Wright screamed.