Slowly, MacNair raised his gun--Lapierre's own gun that he had wrenched, bare-handed from his grasp. Raised it until the muzzle reached the level of Lapierre's eyes. Chloe had stared wide-eyed throughout the whole proceeding. Gazing in fascination at the slow deliberateness of the terrible ordeal.
As the muzzle of the gun came to rest between Lapierre's eyes the girl sprang to MacNair's side. "Don't! Oh, don't kill him!" Her voice rose almost to a shriek. "Don't kill him--for my sake!"
The muzzle of the gun lowered and without releasing an ounce of pressure upon the grip-locked body of the man, MacNair slowly turned his eyes to meet the eyes of the girl. Never in her life had she looked into eyes like that--eyes that gleamed and stabbed, and burned with a terrible pent-up emotion. The eyes of Tiger Elliston, intensified a hundredfold! And then MacNair's lips moved and his voice came low but distinctly and with terrible hardness.
"I am not going to kill him," he said, "but, by God! He will wish I had! I hope he will live to be an old, old man. To the day of his death he will carry my mark. Bone-deep he will carry the scar of the gun-brand! The cross of the curse of Cain!"
MacNair turned from the girl and again the gun crept slowly upward. The quarter-breed had heard the words. With a mighty effort he filled his lungs and from between the blue-grey lips sang a wild, shrill scream of abysmal soul-terror. Chloe Elliston's heart went sick at the cry, which rang in her ears as the very epitome of mortal agony. She felt her knees grow weak and she glanced at the Louchoux girl, who knelt close, still staring into the upturned face, the while her red lips smiled.
Closer, and closer crowded the Indians. MacNair deliberately reversed the gun, his huge fist still gripping the butt. The top of the barrel was turned downward, and the sight bit deep into the skin at the roots of the hair on Lapierre's temple. Deeper and deeper sank the sight. MacNair's fingers tightened their grip until the knuckles whitened and a huge shoulder hunched to throw its weight upon the arm.
Slowly, very slowly, the sight moved across the upturned brow, tearing the flesh, rolling up the skin before its dull, broad edge. The quarter-breed's muscles strained and his legs twined spasmodically about the legs of MacNair, while his fingers tore through the snow and clawed at the bark of the wood-pile. Deliberately, the gun-sight ripped and tore across the forehead--grooving the bone. The wide scar showed raw and red, and in spots the skull flashed white. The broad line lost itself in the hair upon the opposite temple.