The speaker turned back into his cabin, and for a moment I lost sight of him.
“Pre-emption document!” he said. Was it possible he had purchased the place, and was gone to fetch his title-deeds?
If so —
My reflection was cut short. In another moment he re-appeared in the doorway; not with any papers in his hand – but, instead, a long rifle, that with its butt resting on the door-stoop, stood almost as high as himself?
“Now, Mister Turn-me-out?” said he, speaking in a satirical triumphant tone, and raising the piece in front of him, “thur’s my title – my pre-emption right’s the right o’ the rifle. It’s clur enuf: ye’ll acknowledge that, won’t ye?”
“No,” I replied in a firm voice.
“Ye won’t? The hell, ye won’t? Look hyur, stranger! I’m in airnest. Look in my eye, an’ see if I ain’t! I gi’ ye warnin’ then, that ef ye’re not out o’ this clarin’ in six jumps o’ a squ’ll, you’ll niver go out o’ it a livin’ man. You see that ere stump? Its shadder’s jest a creepin’ up to the house: the minnit that shadder touches the wall, I’ll shoot you down, as sure’s my name’s Hick Holt. Mind, I’ve gin ye warnin’!”
“And I give you warning, Mr Holt, that I am prepared to defend myself; and if you miss – ”
“Miss!” ejaculated he with a contemptuous toss of the head – “miss, ye fool! thur’s no fear o’ that.”
“If you miss,” continued I, without heeding the interruption, “I shall show you no mercy. If you are going to take the cowardly advantage of having the the first shot, I have my advantage too. In self-defence, I shall be justified in killing you; and if you fire at me, I shall certainly do so. Be warned! I never spare a coward.”
“Coward!” exclaimed the colossus, with an imprecation that was horrible to hear. “An’ how ef I don’t miss?” continued he, apparently calming his rage, and speaking with a significant sneer – intended to awe me, by insinuating the certainty of his aim. “How ef I don’t miss, Mister Popgun?”
“You may, for all that. Don’t be too sure of hitting – I’ve been shot at before now.”
“You’ll niver be shot at arter now, ’ceptin’ ye leave this clarin’. One crack from my gun’ll be enuf for ye, I reck’n.”
“I’ll take my chance. If it should go against me, you won’t gain by it. Remember, my good man, it’s not a duel we’re fighting! You have chosen to attack me; and if I should fall in the affair, I’ve faith enough in the law to believe it will avenge me.”
I fancied that my speech produced some effect upon the fellow; and, seeing that he remained silent, I followed up it by words of similar import: “If it be my fate to fall, I leave behind me friends who will inquire into my death. Trust me, they will do so! If I kill you, it will be but justifiable homicide, and will be so adjudged; while your killing me will be regarded in a different light: it will be pronounced murder!” I gave full emphasis to the last word.
On hearing it my antagonist showed signs of emotion. I fancied I saw him tremble, and turn slightly pale! With an unsteady voice he replied:
“Murder? No, no; I’ve gin ye warnin’ to go. Ye’ve time enuf yet to save yerself. Git out o’ the clarin’, an’ thur’ll be no harm done ye!”
“I shall not go out of the clearing, until you’ve acknowledged my claim.”
“Then you’ll niver go out o’ it alive – I swar by God! niver!”
“You are determined, then, to be my murderer?”
I again pronounced the word in the most emphatic tone. I saw that it affected him in some singular way; whether through a fear of consequences; or that there still lingered in his heart some spark of humanity; or, perhaps – but least possible of all he was beginning to be ashamed of his foul play. By which of of these three motives, or by what other inspired, I could not guess; but he seemed to cower under the imputation.
“Murderer!” echoed he, after a moment of apparent reflection. “No, no; it’s bad enuf to hev the blame o’ that, ’ithout bein’ guilty o’t. I ain’t agwine to murder ye; but I ain’t agwine neyther to let ye go. I mout a did so a minnit agone, but ye’ve lost yur chance. Ye’ve called me a coward; an’ by the Etarnal! no man ’ll say that word o’ Hick Holt, an’ live to boast o’t. No, mister! ye’ve got to die; an’ ye may get yurself ready for’t, ’s soon’s ye like. Coward indeed!”
“I repeat it – your act is cowardly.”
“What act?”
“Your unprovoked attack upon me – especially since it gives you the first shot. What if I were to shoot you down now? With the pistol you see in my holster here, I could send six bullets through your body, before you could bring your rifle to your shoulder. What would you call that? Sheer cowardice, would it not be; and murder too?”
Chapter Twenty Three
A Duel without Seconds
While I was speaking, I saw a change pass over the countenance of my gigantic antagonist – as if some new resolve was forming in his mind, that affected the programme he had already traced out. Was it possible I had touched him on a point of honour? It was this purpose I desired to effect; and, though hopeless it might appear, I continued the only kind of appeal that, with such a spirit, seemed to promise any chance of success.
“You dare not play fair in this game?” I said, banteringly. “You are a coward; and would murder me. You want the first shot: you know you do?”
“It’s a lie!” cried the colossus, raising himself to his full height, and assuming an air of chivalric grandeur I could not have deemed him capable of – “it’s a lie! I don’t wish to murder ye; an’ I don’t want the the first shot neyther.”
“How?”
“I hain’t so little confidence in my shootin’ as to care for you an’ yur jim-crack gun! Nor is Hick Holt in such consate wi’ his life eyther, that he’s afeerd to risk it. Tho’ ye air a stuck-up critter, I won’t gi’ ye the opportunity to ’kuse me o’ foul play. Thur’s grit in ye, I reck’n; and seein’ that’s made me change my mind.”
“What!” I exclaimed, taken by surprise at the speech, and fancying it promised an end to our altercation – “you have changed your mind? you mean to act justly then?”
“I mean, it shall be a fair stan’-up fight atween us.”
“Oh! a duel?”
“Duel, or whatever else ye may call it, mister.”
“I agree to that. But how about seconds?”
“D’ye think two men can’t fight fair ’ithout seconds? Ye see yander stump standin’ nigh the bars?”
“Yes – I see it.”
“Wal, mister, thur you’ll take yur stand – ahine or afront o’ it, whichsomever ye like best. Hyur’s this other un, clost by the crib – thur’ll be my place. Thur’s twenty yurds atween ’em, I reck’n. Is that yur distance?”
“It will do as well as any other,” I replied mechanically – still under the influence of surprise, not unmingled with a sentiment of admiration.
“Dismount, then! Take your pouch an’ flask along wi’ ye – ye see I’ve got myen? One shot at ye’s all I’ll want, I reck’n. But ef thur shed be a miss, look out for quick loadin’! an’ mind, mister! thur’s one o’ us’ll niver leave this clarin’ alive.”
“About the first shot? Who is to give the signal?”
“I’ve thort o’ that a’ready. It’ll be all right, promise ye.”
“In