The soldier with the scar walks out into the dooryard and watches the disappearing figures. “That duel must not take place,” he says. “But how on earth am I to prevent it? Hello! What’s this?”
His attention is attracted by an ejaculation within the cafe. Two men are whispering by the window next the entrance.
“What deviltry is this?” he scowls, bending his head. And as he listens the scowl deepens on his face, and his fingers clutch at his pistol stock. “By heavens! I must prevent that duel now,” he mutters.
Simultaneous with a command given to the half-intoxicated Sanchez, he of the scar hears the sound of a shot over in the woods.
“Treachery!” he exclaims, and bounds away in the direction of the report.
Felton and Van Zandt proceed silently into the thicket. A short distance from the entrance to the woods is a cleared spot.
“This will probably suit our purpose,” remarks Felton, and, coolly, he measures off ten paces.
“That will be distance enough, will it not?” he asks. Van Zandt nods.
“Will you give the word, Mr. Van Zandt?”