“I mean, it shall be a fair stan’-up fight atween us.”
“Oh! a duel?”
“Duel, or whatever else ye may call it, mister.”
“I agree to that. But how about seconds?”
“D’ye think two men can’t fight fair ’ithout seconds? Ye see yander stump standin’ nigh the bars?”
“Yes—I see it.”
“Wal, mister, thur you’ll take yur stand—ahine or afront o’ it, whichsomever ye like best. Hyur’s this other un, clost by the crib—thur’ll be my place. Thur’s twenty yurds atween ’em, I reck’n. Is that yur distance?”
“It will do as well as any other,” I replied mechanically—still under the influence of surprise, not unmingled with a sentiment of admiration.
“Dismount, then! Take your pouch an’ flask along wi’ ye—ye see I’ve got myen? One shot at ye’s all I’ll want, I reck’n. But ef thur shed be a miss, look out for quick loadin’! an’ mind, mister! thur’s one o’ us’ll niver leave this clarin’ alive.”
“About the first shot? Who is to give the signal?”