“Both be it. That’s best, and will make the end sure. Get ready, and quick. For, sure as I stand here, I intend killing you!”
“Say, you intend tryin’. I’m ready to give you the chance. You can begin, soon’s you feel disposed.”
“And I’m ready for you, sir,” says Davis, confronting Hernandez. “Knives, pistols, tomahawks—anything you like.”
Hernandez hangs back, as though he would rather decline this combat à outrance.
“No, Bill!” interposes Striker; “one fight at a time. When Blew an’ Gomez hev got through wi’ theirs, then you can gi’e t’other his change—if so be he care to hev it.”
“T’other” appears gratified with Striker’s speech, disregarding the innuendo. He had no thought it would come to this, and now looks as if he would surrender up his sweetheart without striking a blow. He makes no rejoinder; but shrinks back, cowed-like and craven.
“Yes; one fight at a time!” cry others, endorsing the dictum of Striker.
It is the demand of the majority, and the minority concedes it. All know it is to be a duel to the death. A glance at the antagonists—at their angry eyes and determined attitudes—makes this sure. On that lonely shore one of the two, if not both, will sleep his last sleep!