He still held his rifle, the barrel resting in the hollow of his left arm, his right hand clutching the stock behind the hammer, his finger an inch from the trigger.
For an instant there was a death-like silence.

Then Eli began to count: "One--two--three--four--" The words fell like strokes of a hammer upon an anvil.

Eli intended to shoot.

He was a man of his word.

He made no threat that he was not prepared to execute, and Indian Jake knew that Eli would shoot on the count of ten.
"Five--six--seven--eight--" Still Indian Jake made no move save that the little hawk eyes had narrowed to slits.