Gamble?s fingers stretched and the tips curled up and made each long digit unnaturally concave. Several warm cracks snapped free of flesh before the man toed-in his fingertips and made each hand a fist. Clyde was no stranger to his partner?s agitations; familiar with both the causes and tells; but appeared strangely resilient in the face of Gamble?s stirring rage. Clyde didn?t take his eyes from Gamble?s, and Gamble?s too did not retreat. Only did Clyde move his hands, taking them up and into the breeches of his coat to again amass at his hips.
?I think I?m through,? Gamble said. ?Just about through, yeah, with you, Clyde Morris. I think that it?s best that you runalong.?
Clyde, a tall and fierce petrification, edifice of an uncertain and ambiguous victory, a genesis of pretentious unfaltering, looked back at Gamble and did not speak. His mouth stayed straight, his yellowy eyes, quiet and small, were straight. When he moved it was only his fingers, those of his right hand, and they crawled, slow and misstepped and impulsively and as wretchedly metered as spiderlegs, towards the pommel of the .45 buried in his beltline.
?Haw!? Gamble hollered in excitement. He?d seen the motion, seen those little spiderfingers crawl. He sided his body with a quick turn, a quick step, swung it so that his broad torso no longer faced Clyde and that his skinny hips, less the target, did instead. In rear, tucked into his belt was the curly old trunk of that antique six-cylinder revolver. It?s pommel was rightfaced, acceptable by the right hand in this sided posture.
And Clyde hadn?t made for his gun, but Gamble?s hurry made a hurry of him. Clyde?s eyes crack, separate from the comfortable mysticism silence, a gruff, stringent mouth and a gun award, and panic; they crack. Nostrils flare, his bottom lip leans down as if to release a holler in pain from the ghost of a bullet presaged by Gamble?s gunstance. He?s tricked by his friend?s stance and thrown into defense before the introduction of an honest, tangible offense: fooled by the noise Gamble had cheered, fooled by his siding, and, ultimately and completely, fooled by the varnish on the trunk of his revolver.