“You can gamble,” said Watkins, confidently, “any party as chases me 'round much, will regyard it as a thrillin' pastime. Which it won't grow on him none as a habit.”
“As you-all seem to feel that a-way,” said the darkly wrathful Cook, “I'll sorter step out an' shoot with you right now!”
“An' I'll shorely go you!” said Watkins.
They arose and walked to the door. It was gathering dark, but it was light enough to shoot by. The other cowboys followed in a kind of savage silence. Not one word was said in comment or objection. They were grave, but passive like Indians. It is not good form to interfere with other people's affairs in Arizona.
Jess, the pretty girl, began singing again. The strains fell softly on the ears of the cowboys. Each, as he listened, whether onlooker or principal, felt a licking, pleased anticipation of the blood to be soon set flowing.
Nothing was said of distance. Cook and Watkins separated to twenty paces and turned to face each other. Each wore his six-shooter, the loose pistol belt letting it rest low on his hip. Each threw down his big hat and stood at apparent ease, with his thumbs caught in his belt.
“Shall you give the word, or me?” asked Cook.
“You says when!” retorted Watkins. “It'll be a funny passage in American history if you-all gets your gun to the front any sooner than I do.”
“Be you ready?” asked Cook.
“Which I'm shorely ready!”