thers
present; but Shon's last speech, delivered in a ringing tone, drew the
miners to their feet, in expectation of seeing shots exchanged at once.
The code required satisfaction, immediate and decisive. Shon was not
armed, and some one thrust a pistol towards him; but he did not take
it. Pierre rose, and coming slowly to him, laid a slender finger on his
chest, and said:

"So! I did not know that she was your wife. That is a surprise."

The miners nodded assent. He continued:

"Lucy Rives your wife! Hola, Shon McGann, that is such a joke."

"It's no joke, but God's truth, and the lie is with you, Pierre."

Murmurs of anticipation ran round the room; but the half-breed said:
"There will be satisfaction altogether; but it is my whim to prove what
I say first; then"--fondling his revolver--"then we shall settle. But,
see: you will meet me here at ten o'clock to-night, and I will make it,
I swear to you, so clear, that the woman is vile."

The Irishman suddenly clutched the gambler, shook him like a dog, and
threw him against the farther wall. Pierre's pistol was levelled from
the instant Shon moved; but he did not use it. He rose on one knee after
the violent fall, and pointing it at the other's head, said coolly:
"I could kill you, my friend, so easy! But it is not my whim. Till ten
o'clock is not long to wait, and then, just here, one of us shall die.
Is it not so?" The Irishman did not flinch before the pistol. He said
with low fierceness, "At ten o'clock, or now, or any time, or at any
place, y'll find me ready to break the back of the lies y've spoken, or
be broken meself. Lucy Rives is my wife, and she's true and straight as
the sun in the sky. I'll be here at ten o'clock, and as ye say, Pierre,
one of us makes the long reckoning for this." And he opened the door and
went out.

The half-breed moved to the bar, and, throwing down a handful of
silver, said: "It is good we drink after so much heat. Come on, come on,
comrades."

The miners responded to the invitation. Their sympathy was mostly with
Shon McGann; their admiration was about equally divided; for Pretty
Pierre had the quality of courage in as active a degree as the Irishman,
and they knew that some extraordinary motive, promising greater
excitement, was behind the Frenchman's refusal to send a bullet through
Shon's head a moment before.

King Kinkley, the best shot in the Valley next to Pierre, had watched
the unusual development of the incident