"Don't you worry!" bantered Bill, "I kin shoot straight enough; as you'll find out, if it comes to a showdown. I thought you was going to do something!"
He laughed as a Texan told him gruffly to hush up, and then he returned to Elmo.
"Put up that danged smoke-house," he called out hectoringly, "you ain't got the guts to use it. Jest meet me halfway and I'll fight you, fist and skull—for the drinks or for nothing at all."
He laid off his belt, with the two six-shooters hung loose in it, and stepped out into the open, but Elmo declined to fight. Some of the gunmen urged him on, but he had fought Bill once before and come off second best.
"Aw, come away, Bill," jeered Winchester, "can't you see he's afraid to fight ye? Come on, let's go back home."
"Well, you're so danged fresh," flared up Isham stepping forward, "you come, and I'll fight you myself."
"Nope, don't want no trouble," answered Winchester quietly, "git your horse, Bill—we'll be going home."
"You're skeered!" taunted Isham, laying off his belted pistols and rolling up his sleeves defiantly, but Winchester only smiled.
"You might gang me," he said, but, as Isham began to whoop, Sharps Bassett suddenly laid off his belt. Shaking the black hair from his eyes he advanced without a word, his neck swelling like a blow-snake's with rage.