“Boyd Bennett, you and I have many an old score to settle. Give me footing on that bank. You have your knife; I have mine. Let us try conclusions fairly.”
“What! Give you a chance to play some scurvy trick on me—when I’ve got you dead to rights?” cried Bennett, and laughed long and loudly.
Cody edged a step nearer to the shore.
“Be a man!” urged the scout. “You’re as good as I am.”
“I’m better—curse you!”
Cody gained another foot.
“Let us try conclusions, blade to blade. Give me a show, man!”
“It’s war to the knife, and the knife to the hilt between us—that’s true, Bill Cody!” gritted out the man. “But you shall not be given a chance. I’ll kill you in cold blood—or see you drown in this river. Mark ye that!”
Cody crept a few inches nearer.
“Come! You are rested. You’ve got your strength back. I’m chilled to the bone. But don’t kill me as you would a dog, Bennett!” urged the wily scout.