They stood along the wall, unkempt and untidy, but there was something
about them that was as cold and deadly as the whine of a bullet or the
fangs of a viper. They were lean as weasels, and as fast. The rifles
they held, from the repeating carbines belonging to Barr, Yancey, Dabb
and Grant, to Pete's single-shot fifty caliber, seemed a part of them
and they had grown up with those rifles. These were men who had no shots
to waste and who therefore must make every one count. They would be
shamed if they shot a turkey or grouse anywhere except through the head
and they had only raucous jeers for whoever was unable to shoot as well.
"Turn 'raound!" Pete ordered gruffly.
"Not here ya fool!" Barr countermanded the order. "A fair half of
Smithville'll come a'racin'."