d after that there wasn't much room for anything else to be said
on either side. They mixed it, and they mixed it briskly, for Jim's
contempt for a man who wore a hat like that supplied the courage that
had been drained from him when he was disarmed.

There was nothing epic in that fight, nothing heroic at all. It was a
wildcat struggle in the dust, no more science on either side than nature
put into their hands at the beginning. But they surely did kick up a lot
of dust. It would have been a peaceful enough little fight, with a
handshake at the end and all over in an hour, very likely, if Jim hadn't
managed to get out his knife when he felt himself in for a trimming.

It was a mean-looking knife, with a buck-horn handle and a four-inch
blade that leaped open on pressure of a spring. Its type was widely
popular all over the West in those days, but one of them would be almost
a curiosity now. But Jim had it out, anyhow, lying on his back with the
Duke's knee on his ribs, and was whittling away before any man could
raise a hand to stop him.

The first slash split the Duke's cheek for two inches just below his
eye; the next tore his shirt sleeve from shoulder to elbow, grazing the
skin as it passed. And there somebody kicked Jim's elbow and knocked the
knife out of his hand.

"Let him up, Duke," he said.

Lambert released the strangle hold that he had taken on Jim's throat and
looked up. It was Spence, standing there with his horse behind him. He
laid his hand on Lambert's shoulder.

"Let him up, Duke," he said again.

Lambert got up, bleeding a cataract. Jim bounced to his feet like a
spring, his hand to his empty holster, a look of dismay in his blanching
face.

"That's your size, you nigger!" Spence said, kicking the knife beyond
Jim's reach. "That's the kind of a low-down cuss you always was. This
man's our guest, and when you pull a knife on him you pull it on me!"

"You know I ain't got a gun on me, you----"

"Git it, you sneakin' houn'!"

Jim looked round for Taterleg.

"Where's my gun? you greasy potslinger!"

"Give it to him, whoever's got it."

Taterleg produced it. Jim began backing off as soon as he had it in his
hand, watching Spence alertly. Lambert leaped between them.

"Gentlemen, don't go to shootin' over a little thing like this!" he
begged.

Taterleg came between them, also, and Siwash, quite blocking up the
fairway.

"Now, boys, put up your guns; this is Sunday, you know," Siwash s