Yet he was in no hurry to assail the old man. Aware that his followers must be close behind him, and that a few moments at furthest would enable them to arrive, he determined to keep the contest confined to words, if possible, until they came up. Old as Uncle Lawrence was, he bore a reputation for bravery, skill and strength, which made Arrison quite willing to avoid a hand to hand struggle with the patriarch.
“You!” cried Arrison. “Take a word of advice then, old man, and don’t mix yourself up with a business that’s none of your concern.”
“But suppose I think it does consarn me,” coolly answered Uncle Lawrence. “Miss Katie here is an old pet of mine, so stand aside and let us pass.”
“Not so fast. Again, I say, go your ways and save your life.”
“I do not go without her. Stand aside, villain.”
“Never,” exclaimed Arrison, chafed at these words. “I warn you not to try my patience too far.”
“I’m not afeerd of you, James Arrison,” answered the old man, in a tone of contempt, “and you know it. Keep your warning for some one else.”
“Will you go?”
“No!”
Scarcely had the veteran spoken, when the refugee pulled trigger. But, quick as he had been, the old man was quicker. Resolving to save his fire if possible, in order to be better prepared for self-defence, if the refugees arrived before Major Gordon, he suddenly and dexterously thrust forward the barrel of his piece in such a manner as to knock up the gun of the outlaw. The movement was so swift that Arrison had time neither to counteract it, nor to prevent his load from going off; and the consequence was that his ball whistled harmlessly over Uncle Lawrence’s head, burying itself in the tree against which Kate leaned, a few inches above her. A savage oath broke from the refugee at this failure, and his eyes flashed lightning as it were. He shortened his gun instantly, as if to club it; then hesitated whether he had not better throw it away and rush in on his antagonist; and finally stood irresolute, his face purple with rage and baffled hate.