“Don’t fight him, father,” she said. “I’m not afraid of him, and beyond the fact that he has kept me prisoner he has done me no wrong.”
“It won’t do,” replied Old Pegs, fiercely. “I’m going ter wipe him out, sure, and I don’t want you to interfere or you and I’ll hev words. Look hyar, Rafe Norris, Curly-headed Ned, Sarpint, whatever yer name is, you’ve got ter fight me.”
“I am willing,” he cried, anxiously. “I’ll fight you in any way you name.”
“Wait; I wanter leave the gal safe in case I go under. I don’t wanter, but then I mout. Whar’s yer carbine, Myrtle?”
“In the cabin.”
“Git it and put a new charge in. You’ve got ter boss this skrimmage, you understand, and see fa’r play. This yer skunk hez lived long enuff, I kalkilate, and the sooner he’s wiped out the better.”
Myrtle knew the determined character of the old hunter well and that it was useless to oppose him. She hurried into the house and brought out her carbine, discharged it and put in a new load. She had the utmost confidence in her guardian and believed that he was able to overcome Rafe Norris in a fair fight. When she had loaded, Old Pegs turned to Norris.
“We’ll stand off at about twenty paces and begin ef you hev no objections. Thar’s a shooter.”
He tossed one of the revolvers to Rafe, who snatched it up eagerly.
“Ef I go under, gal, take to ther foot-hills and don’t come out till you find Dave or some of the boys. Now we’ll stand back to back, walk ten paces and wheel when you give the word. After that let the best man win, but ef one of us tries to turn till you do give the word—send fur him, thet’s all.”