"I'll fight ye!" he rumbled, and Isham backed away, then turned and made a jump for his guns.
"You dirty, black scoundrel!" he yelled in a false fury, "don't you think I seen that knife in your boot? I wouldn't dirty my hands on a nigger like you, nohow—because that's all you are, a damned nigger!"
Sharps stood in the open, his huge fists still clenched, his eyes turning red with savage rage; then he, too, wheeled and reached for his guns. There was a silence, and the gunmen that Isham had hired crouched low and waited for the break; but before a hand had moved a man stepped swiftly forward and took his place beside the Bassetts. It was Hall McIvor and as the Texans paused to glance at him the tenseness of the moment was broken. A new emotion stepped in, to break the psychic wave that was sweeping them on towards a killing.
"What are you doing—over there?" demanded Isham roughly, and Hall fixed him with his piercing black eyes.
"I'm here to fight," he answered quietly. "This is no quarrel of mine, but when fifteen men pitch on three I'm going to help them, right or wrong."
"You half-Injun rascal!" burst out Isham accusingly, "I said all the time you was here to join the Bassetts—and now, by Godfrey, look at him!"
He turned to Meshackatee, who was looking on in wonder, and pointed a scornful hand at their ex-prisoner; but McIvor's blood was up and, as Isham continued to point, he leapt over and slapped him in the face.
"Take that!" he said, "and if you pretend to be a gentleman draw your gun and we'll shoot this out!"
He stood expectant, his slim hand poised and waiting above the butt of a well-worn pistol, but Scarborough did not go for his gun. He hesitated and as McIvor saw the fear in his eyes he stepped back with a thin-lipped smile.
"In my country," he said, "we settle our differences of opinion by stepping off ten paces, then turn and shoot. I say you are a coward, a blustering fool and no gentleman—do you accept my challenge, or not?"