"I reckon they don't want any of our fight," sneered one of Phinny's adherents from the edge of the grove.
"Pardon! Does m'sieu want to fight?" politely inquired Papa Clair, running toward the group in the shadows.
"Keep that sticker 'way from my ribs!" frantically yelled the man.
"Come back here, Papa. This is growing into a joke. That swarthy dog doesn't want to fight. Hurry or they'll be swimming back to the city," called out Lander.
"My man will fight at fifteen paces," snarled Tilton.
"Very well. It is most excellent to find he will fight at all," said Papa Clair. "If one stands where M'sieu Tilton is standing, and one here in my tracks, the light will be equal and M'sieu Tilton can place his man without tossing the coin."
"Not by a —— sight!" growled Tilton. Then with a vicious laugh: "This is for blood. Keep yer Frenchy perliteness to yerself. We'll toss a coin. Th' winner picks any spot in the openin' he wants to an' t'other man must face him. Hi, Dillings! Step out here an' flip a coin."
Bridger gave a low, amused laugh at the bald-faced plan to do murder. Papa Clair spat with a hissing noise and ominously objected:
"Be careful, M'sieu Tilton. Be very careful. Not M'sieu Dillings. He has the prejudice. He has said he did not believe my man wanted the fight. We do not trust him. No."
"Well, I can't toss it; neither can ye toss it; neither can Phinny nor Lander. Name any one ye want to," affably replied Tilton.
"But you all are of the same," protested Clair. "Let them stand as I said with the light fair for both."
"Ye keep on backin' water an' there won't be enough light to fight by," warned a voice from the shadows.
"We know our rights. Ye ain't new to this game, Papa Clair," gravely said Tilton. "I insist on th' coin bein' flipped. Name any man on this island; we'll be satisfied an' never make a yip; only be quick."
"You know well we have no friends here," replied Clair savagely. "You bring a crowd of men. We two are here alone."
"And only one of you is going back," taunted Phinny.
"Dog! Defiler of the sacred dueling-ground! Nom de Dieu! It is more the murder trap!" shrilly cried Clair.
"Name some one or Dillings shall toss th' coin," peremptorily announced Tilton.
"Wouldn't that be pretty raw, Tilton?" drawled Bridger, moving from the bushes.
The deep silence evidenced how greatly his intrusion had jolted the men. Before any one spoke or made a move he advanced into the opening and inquired, "Will I do, Papa Clair?"
"The devil would do, rather than any of these A. F. C. men," cried Clair. "I can't see you well, m'sieu. Your voice is that of some one I have known and liked. You can't be an A. F. C. man. Give your name."
"Jim Bridger. Do I suit?"
"To the sky and ground!" enthusiastically exclaimed Lander.
"Holy blue! Better than an angel!" cried Papa Clair.
"Hold on a minute!" yelled Tilton, still nonplused but realizing he must say something. "I reckin it ain't just reg'lar for a' outsider to come crowding like this. How many yer men hiding back there?"
"Never you mind my men, you 'Ricaree-hearted skunk. You and your rotten crowd won't be hurt if you don't try any dirty work. All ready? Here goes." The coin glittered in the moonlight. Phinny called out anxiously.
"You lost," announced Bridger.
"How do we know that?" cried Tilton.
Bridger stood beside him in two strides. The spectators could not see just what took place, but all could hear Bridger say:
"You heard me say that your man lost the call. What do you mean by your words? You making off to throw a doubt 'bout my honesty? Quick!"
"No, no, Mister Bridger. I spoke afore I thought," gasped Tilton.
"Some time some one will git fussed up an' you won't have time to think," somberly warned Bridger. "Lander, choose your position. You can stand and face anywhere you will."
According to Tilton's own terms Lander could have selected a position in the shadows of the bushes and compelled his man to stand in the bright moonlight. Tilton expected him to take the advantage, especially when Papa Clair repeated Tilton's words, "This is for blood." Lander hesitated a moment, not that he purposed seeking any undue advantage but solely to make Phinny and his followers squirm.
"Don't sweat any more, Phinny," he called out. "I will stand here, facing Tilton. Measure the ground."
"An' I'll stand over here near my old friends, Dillings an' others, all good A. F. C. men," chuckled Bridger, crossing to the sullen group.
"Ah, now we shall have a decent fight. Only with the knife it would be much cleaner. If m'sieu even now wishes to change and fight with the knife my man will not object. But of course not at the present distance."
"No, no," snarled Phinny, taking a pistol from Tilton and gripping it nervously.
Tilton stepped off the distance, Papa Clair mincing along at his side to see he did not make it more than fifteen paces.
"Stand here, Phinny," Tilton gruffly called. "Shall I give the word, Clair?"
"My friend, M'sieu Bridger, is better to give the word. No one objects?"
Tilton bit his lips but did not object. Bridger was to be reckoned with in more ways than one. In a physical contest there was no one between the Missouri and the Rockies who could make him hold back from trouble. He was one who never forgot a friend or an injury. His powerful personality, despite his lack of years, already was registering on St. Louis. He typed the ideals of the fur trade that existed before the A. F. C. made its headquarters in St. Louis in 1822.
"I'm willin'. It's only a matter o' countin'," sullenly replied Tilton.
"Ah, men count, and men count," ironically murmured Clair. "If M'sieu Bridger has the great politeness to favor us."
Bridger strode to a position midway between the two men, halting just out of line of their fire, and humorously remarked:
"I didn't come for the job. But if you all say I must, why, I must."
Suddenly wheeling to face the men lined up along the bushes he hooked his fingers in his belt and there was no humor now in his voice as he warned:
"I'll kill any man or men who break in on this game." Then to the duelists: "I shall slowly count three. After the word three you can fire."
"And I hold my knife by the tip. My eyes are watching M'sieu Tilton," added Papa Clair.
"Yer s'picions!" growled Tilton, edging away from his principal. "Give the word an' let's have it over with."
"Make ready. Are you both ready?" called out Bridger sharply.
"Ready here," snarled Phinny.
"Ready," quietly called out Lander.
"One—two—three," slowly and distinctly counted Bridger.
Phinny fired while the last word was being uttered, his ball whistling by Lander's ear. An instant later Lander fired, and his opponent half turned, remained motionless for a moment, then slumped down on his knees and rolled over.
Bridger started toward him, wrathfully crying:
"The miserable cur, to fire before he got the word!"
Tilton reached the prostrate figure first and