“If that’s your game, Plummer,” said Crawford laying his hand on his shoulder, and looking him steadily in the eye, “the quicker you do it, the worse for you. I’ll present you a fair target.”
Turning upon his heel Crawford walked deliberately away, well knowing that fear of consequences would prevent Plummer from firing at him, without some plausible excuse. This conversation occurred at a late hour in the afternoon. Harry Phleger came into town early in the evening. Crawford sent a message to him, requesting him to come at once to Peabody’s saloon. As he entered, Crawford told him that Plummer had given him two hours to live, and the time had nearly expired.
“I expect,” said Crawford, “he will keep his word.”
“If he attempts it,” replied Phleger, “we will try and give him as good as he sends. It’s clever at any rate to inform one of his intentions. He will expect you to be prepared.”
In a few minutes five or six men, armed with revolvers, entered the saloon, followed by Plummer. He had remained long enough outside to deposit a double-barrelled gun over the door. “Deaf Dick,” who accompanied the crowd, was unarmed.
“Come on, boys,” said Phleger, “let’s take a drink.”
All stepped back in refusal of the invitation.
“Well, Dick,” said Crawford, addressing him in a key that he could hear, “you’ll drink anyhow.”
“Not I,” said Dick with an oath. “I drink with no coward such as you have proved yourself to be by refusing to fight Plummer.”
“You’re the wrong man to brand me as a coward, at any rate,” said Crawford, advancing toward him as if with the intention of striking.