Ferguson, but
I seen that it was the last straw with Sandy. He hefted out both guns
and trained 'em on the greenhorn.

"I yelled: 'Sandy, for God's sake, don't be killin' a tenderfoot!'

"'If whisky will kill him he's goin' to die,' says Sandy. 'Flanders,
pour out a drink of rye for this gent.'

"I did it, though my hand was shaking a lot, and the chap takes the
glass and raises it polite, and looks at the colour of it. I thought he
was goin' to drink, and starts wipin' the sweat off'n my forehead.

"But this chap, he sets down the glass and smiles over to Sandy.

"'Listen,' he says, still grinnin', 'in the old days I suppose this
would have been a pretty bluff, but it won't work with me now. You want
me to drink this glass of very bad whisky, but I'm sure that you don't
want it badly enough to shoot me.

"'There are many reasons. In the old days a man shot down another and
then rode off on his horse and was forgotten, but in these days the
telegraph is faster than any horse that was ever foaled. They'd be sure
to get you, sir, though you might dodge them for a while. And I believe
that for a crime such as you threaten, they have recently installed a
little electric chair which is a perfectly good inducer of sleep--in
fact, it is better than a cradle. Taking these things all into
consideration, I take it for granted that you are bluffing, my friend,
and one of my favourite occupations is calling a bluff. You look
dangerous, but I've an idea that you are as yellow as your moustache.'

"Sandy, he sort of swelled up all over like a poisoned dog.

"He says: 'I begin to see your style. You want a clean man-handlin',
which suits me uncommon well.'

"With that, he lays down his guns, soft and careful, and puts up his
fists, and goes for the other gent.

"He makes his pass, which should have sent the other gent into kingdom
come. But it didn't. No, sir, the tenderfoot, he seemed to evaporate. He
wasn't there when the fist of Ferguson come along. Ferguson, he checked
up short and wheeled around and charged again like a bull. And he missed
again. And so they kept on playin' a sort of a game of tag over the
place, the stranger jest side-steppin' like a prize-fighter, the
prettiest you ever seen, and not developin' when Sandy started on one of
his swings.

"At last one of Sandy's fists grazed him on the shoulder and sort of
peeved him, it looked like. He ducks under Sandy's next punch, steps in,
and wallops Sandy over