Tearing the cards from the bully’s hand, he dashed them in his face with such violence that the blood started from his cut cheek.
The two men sprang at one another’s throats, and in a moment they would have rolled down on the floor, perhaps not to rise again, but the other men standing around closed in and dragged them apart by main force.
Such a dispute could have but one ending, even without the deadly insult in which it had culminated.
In those early days in the West dueling was common on very much smaller cause than this quarrel afforded. Any one who had dared to dissent from the custom and refused to meet his enemy on the “field of honor” would have been publicly branded as the most cowardly of men.
“You will meet me to-morrow morning!” hissed the bully, choking back his rage with an effort.
“Certainly—whenever and wherever you like,” replied the young rancher.
At this point Buffalo Bill, who had been smoking on the veranda and had heard the scuffle, entered the room. He took in the situation at a glance and went up to Ketchum.
“I don’t like your face or your manner, Mr. Ketchum,” he said, in a hard, clear voice, which every man in the room could hear. “It will give me great pleasure if you will meet me in the morning before you fulfill your engagement with my friend here.”
Ketchum looked into the eyes of the border king, which were filled with a somber and dangerous light, and he quailed before them.
“I have no quarrel with you,” he muttered. “My quarrel is with your friend. He struck me in a most unwarranted manner.”