“He started thinkin’ too late!” gritted the cowpuncher, sliding off his stool. He confronted Henry balefully for a moment. “Go get your gun, you little— You’ve bought somethin’! I aint killed a jackrabbit this week yet. But here’s where I start.”
“Just a minute,” interposed Sam. “This play is on your own deal, stranger. But you ought to know what you’re up against. Pete’s a good rifle shot. He won the turkey-shoot over to Escandero last Christmas. You should be behind that log, not him. Or we’ll dig up another one for you.”
The little man was so ineffective, so insignificant-looking, so—so puttery, that they felt sorry for him. There was a chorus of assent from the travelers. He thanked them with a smile, then turned and led the way to the door.
“Oh, I’ll worry along with old Betsey,” he said cheerfully. “A log’s such a nuisance to carry when you start to run!”
Rodeo, smelling the trouble somehow, walked en masse up the railroad-track with the travelers. The town, looking for all the world like a movie-set, with its short line of one-story, false-fronted frame buildings, was left alone. The spectators took station midway between the antagonists, and perhaps fifty yards off the line of fire. The roadbed was somewhat above the general level, and they could see clearly.
Chihuahua Pete rested on one elbow behind the center of a fire-blackened log. The log was thick and substantial-looking. The little man, seemingly smaller and more helpless than ever, sprawled on the open sand. His coat was off; it lay beside him, a heap of cartridges in clips of five, upon it. His left arm was in the sling of his rifle. Both men watched the group on the railroad, for a signal from Sam was to start the battle.
“Say, this aint legal!” declared the derby-hatted drummer to Ed, the smaller man’s friend. “Why, this is duelin', contrary to the laws of these here United States! Yes sir! Why don’t you do something about it? Why don’t you stop it? What did you let him goad this drunken cowpuncher for?”
Ed turned a bitter eye on him. “Do something?” he echoed. “Say, I’ve been trying to do something with that little worm for forty years! He jumps from one trouble to another like a mountain-goat! Always jumps out again, though; I’ll say that for him.” This in grudging afterthought.
The traveling man clawed his sleeve. “But this is murder!” he protested. “He hasn’t got a chance. This cowboy’ll stiffen him, first shot.”