Jack Folinsbee sulkily demanded another shot.

Again the parties stood opposed to each other. Again the word was given,
and what seemed to be the simultaneous report of both pistols rose upon
the air. But after an interval of a few seconds all were surprised to
see Culpepper slowly raise his unexploded weapon and fire it harmlessly
above his head. Then, throwing the pistol upon the ground, he walked to
a tree and leaned silently against it.

Jack Folinsbee flew into a paroxysm of fury. Colonel Starbottle raved
and swore. Mr. Bungstarter was properly shocked at their conduct.
"Really, gentlemen, if Mr. Culpepper Starbottle declines another shot, I
do not see how we can proceed."

But the Colonel's blood was up, and Jack Folinsbee was equally
implacable. A hurried consultation ensued, which ended by Colonel
Starbottle taking his nephew's place as principal, Bill Masters acting
as second, vice Mr. Bungstarter, who declined all further connection
with the affair.

Two distinct reports rang through the Hollow. Jack Folinsbee dropped his
smoking pistol, took a step forward, and then dropped heavily upon his
face.

In a moment the surgeon was at his side. The confusion was heightened
by the trampling of hoofs, and the voice of the blacksmith bidding them
flee for their lives before the coming storm. A moment more and the
ground was cleared, and the surgeon, looking up, beheld only the white
face of Culpepper bending over him.

"Can you save him?"

"I cannot say. Hold up his head a moment, while I run to the buggy."

Culpepper passed his arm tenderly around the neck of the insensible man.
Presently the surgeon returned with some stimulants.

"There, that will do, Mr. Starbottle, thank you. Now my advice is to get
away from here while you can. I'll look after Folinsbee. Do you hear?"

Culpepper's arm was still round the neck of his late foe, but his head
had drooped and fallen on the wounded man's shoulder. The surgeon looked
down, and, catching sight of his face, stooped and lifted him gently
in his arms. He opened his coat and waistcoat. There was blood upon his
shirt, and a bullet-hole in his breast. He had been shot unto death at
the first fire.

THE POET OF SIERRA FLAT.

As the enterprising editor of the "Sierra Flat Record" stood at his case
setting type for his next week's paper, he could not help hearing the
woodpeckers who were busy on the roof above his head. It occurred to
him that possibly the