"Certainly, me frind, nothin' ilse. There's no way to get out of it, honorably."
Fernando reeled as if he had been struck a blow. He had read of duels, but, in the solitude of his western home on the farm, he had never known of any. They were the bloody inventions of more polite civilization. One had been fought between two trappers at a trading post, not over forty miles away, in which rifles at thirty paces were used, and both men were killed. The preacher had said it was murder. Fernando was brave; but he shrank from a duel, and it was not until his pride had been appealed to, that he determined to fight. Then Terrence assured him the lieutenant's friend was waiting; all that was wanting was the weapons.
"I must talk with Sukey."
Sukey was sent for, and when the tall, lanky fellow entered the apartment, Fernando told him all.
"Don't you be in the game, Fernando. Let me tell you, don't you be in it," Sukey answered.
But he was informed that he must, or be forever disgraced. Besides, his enemy was a hated Briton, whom their country was almost on the verge of war with, and it would not be a bad thing to kill him in advance.
"Well, if you must be in the game, Fernando, fight with hatchets. You know you used to throw a hatchet twenty steps and split a pumpkin every time. Fight with hatchets."
It was a novel mode of dueling; but Terrence took the proposition to the lieutenant's friend. The Briton said his friend was a gentlemen, willing to fight with any of the weapons which civilized gentlemen used, and if Mr. Stevens would not consent to the same, the lieutenant would publish him as a barbarian and a coward. Pistols were settled on as a compromise, and Terrence went away to settle the final arrangements. He returned with a smile on his face and, rubbing his hands, said:
"Cheer up, me boy, it's all settled."
"What? won't we fight?"