"You may laugh!" yelled Ryan; "laugh, you hounds!" but Balshannon lifted his hand, and the crowd were silent.
"Yes, I failed," said Ryan. "I had to wait—I waited—but what I couldn't do you did for yourself; yes, you, Balshannon, drinking and gambling here while your forsaken wife lay dying yonder! I had only to find a few friends to lend you me money, and sharpers to be after rooking you of all you borrowed. Yes, that was me vengeance; can you say that failed? Where is your big estate? Where are your cattle? Where is your wife?"
Balshannon's face had gone dead with pain, but he never flinched.
"And now," Ryan shouted at him, "you beggared gambler, you broken, shaking drunkard, you shall finish this vengeance on yourself, which you began, which needs no hand of mine! Here!" He ran forward, and jammed a long knife into Balshannon's hand. "Finish! Kill yourself, and have done, for shure an' you're not fit to live, ye filthy beast!"
Balshannon was reeling, faint, sick, clinging to the bar for support.
"Boys," I shouted, "if Ryan's a man, let him fight. Stand aside, give him room, give him a gun. Patrone, take this gun!" I jumped to his side, jammed one of my revolvers into his hand, then leapt back to my place by the wall. Ryan's tin-horn pets had deserted him; even his son, scared to death, had slunk away.
"Help!" Ryan was screaming. "Murther!" But a gun was thrust into his hand, and his own hired thugs shoved him forward to fight Balshannon.
"When I call 'Three!'" I shouted, and saw Balshannon stand like a man, cool, steady.
"One, two, three!"
Ryan fired and missed before my second call, but at the "Three" Balshannon's gun blazed out. I saw a little black hole between Ryan's eyes, and he fell forward all in a heap, stone dead.