"Very well. I shall count three slowly, and after that we can fire as we please. Are you ready?—stand a bit sideways. Your chest is a pretty broad target—that's right; I'm going to count. One—two—three—"
The word was hardly spoken before one of the pistols rang out. It was Zeb's; and Heaven knows whither his bullet flew. The smoke cleared away in a blue, filmy streak, and revealed his enemy standing where he stood before, with his pistol up, and a quiet smile on his face.
Still holding the pistol up, the stranger now advanced deliberately until he came to a halt about two paces from Zeb, who, with white face and set jaw, waited for the end. The eyes of the two men met, and neither flinched.
"Strip," commanded the stranger. "Strip—take off that jersey."
"Why not kill me without ado? Man, isn't this cruel?"
"Strip, I say."
Zeb stared at him for half a minute, like a man in a trance; and began to pull the jersey off.
"Now your shirt. Strip—till you are naked as a babe."
Zeb obeyed. The other laid his pistol down on the turf, and also proceeded to undress, until the two men stood face to face, stark naked.
"We were thus, or nearly thus, a month ago, when you gave me my life.
Does it strike you that, barring our faces, we might be twin brothers?
Now, get into my clothes, and toss me over your own!"