"What gun are you using?" he asked with cool politeness.
"Colt's," came the answer.
Francis stepped boldly into the open, saying: "Then you're all out. I counted 'em. Eight. Now we can talk."
The stranger stepped out, and Francis could not help admiring the fine figure of him, despite the fact that a dirty pair of canvas pants, a cotton undershirt, and a floppy sombrero constituted his garmenting. Further, it seemed he had previously known him, though it did not enter his mind that he was looking at a replica of himself.
"Talk!" the stranger sneered, throwing down his pistol and drawing a knife. "Now we'll just cut off your ears, and maybe scalp you."
"Gee! You're sweet-natured and gentle animals in this neck of the woods," Francis retorted, his anger and disgust increasing. He drew his own hunting knife, brand new from the shop and shining. "Say, let's wrestle, and cut out this ten-twenty-and-thirty knife stuff."
"I want your ears," the stranger answered pleasantly, as he slowly advanced.
"Sure. First down, and the man who wins the fall gets the other fellow's ears."
"Agreed." The young man in the canvas trousers sheathed his knife.
"Too bad there isn't a moving picture camera to film this," Francis girded, sheathing his own knife. "I'm sore as a boil. I feel like a heap bad Injun. Watch out! I'm coming in a rush! Anyway and everyway for the first fall!"