The weapon fell, and both men clutched like tigers. Sim Ripson leaped over the bar and separated them.
"No rasslin' here!" said he. "When gentlemen gits too mad to hold in, an' shoots at sight, I hev to stan' it, but rasslin's vulgar—you'll hev to go out o' doors to do it."
"I'll hev it out with him with pistols, then!" cried Redwing, picking up his weapon.
"'Greed!" roared Flip, whose pistol lay on the table. "We'll do it cross the crick, at daylight.
"It's daylight now," said Sim Ripson, hurriedly, after looking out of his window at the end of the bar.
He was a good storekeeper, was Sam Ripson, and he knew how to mix drinks, but he had an unconquerable aversion to washing blood stains out of the floor.
The two gamblers rushed out of the door, pistols in hand, and the crowd followed, each man talking at the top of his voice, and betting on the chances of the combatants.
Suddenly, above all the noise, they heard a cracked soprano voice singing with some unauthorized flatting and sharping:
"Another six days' work is done,
Another Sabbath is begun.
Return, my soul, enjoy thy rest,
Improve the day thy God has blessed."
"Another six days' work is done,
Another Sabbath is begun.
Return, my soul, enjoy thy rest,
Improve the day thy God has blessed."