“I will not be run off by the rebel hound,” said Pinkham. “If I were to leave it would be reported that I had ‘weakened’ and fled from Patterson;—and you know that I would prefer death in its worst form to that.”
Patterson hurried out of the bath, dressed himself as quickly as possible, and with the revolver strapped to his side, came into the bar-room. Calling for a drink, in a loud tone and with much expletive and appellative emphasis, his blood-drinking eyes glaring in all directions, he demanded to know where Pinkham had gone. Turner, thinking to pacify him, replied in a mild tone,
“Away, I believe.”
Pinkham at this moment was standing by a banister on the porch, engaged in conversation with a friend by the name of Dunn. He was unapprised of Patterson’s return to the saloon, and, from the tenor of his conversation, believed he would be warned of his approach. For the impression that each entertained of the other’s intention to fire upon him, and that both were awaiting the opportunity to do so, these men were indebted to the mischievous interference of those friends whose wishes were parent to the thought.
“I will not be run off by Patterson,” said Pinkham, “nor do I wish that through any undue advantage he should assassinate me. All I ask is fair play. My pistol has only five loads in it.”
“Stand your ground, Pink,” replied Dunn. “I have a loaded five-shooter, and will stand by you while there is a button on my coat.”
These words were scarcely uttered, when Patterson stepped from the saloon upon the porch. Turning to the right, he stood face to face with Pinkham. The fearful glare of his bloody eyes was met by the deepening scowl of his antagonist. Hurling at Pinkham a degrading epithet, he exclaimed,
“Draw, will you?”
“Yes,” replied Pinkham with an oath, “I will,” and drawing his revolver, poised it in his left hand to facilitate the speed of cocking it.
Patterson, with the rapidity of lightning, drew his, cocking it in the act, and firing as he raised it. The bullet lodged under Pinkham’s shoulder blade. Pinkham received a severe nervous shock from the wound, and delivered his shot too soon, the bullet passing over the head of Patterson, into the roof. At Patterson’s second fire the cap failed to explode, but before Pinkham, who was disabled by his wound, could cock his pistol for another shot, Patterson fired a third time, striking Pinkham near the heart. He reeled down the steps of the porch, and fell forward upon his face, trying with his expiring strength to cock his revolver. At the first fire of Patterson, Dunn forgot his promise to stand by Pinkham. Jumping over the banister, he sought refuge beneath the porch. Stealing thence when the firing ceased, he ran across the street, where, protected by the ample trunk of a large pine, he took furtive observation of the catastrophe. Pinkham’s other friend came from the rear of the house in time to assist Turner in removing his body.