would be no worse. Better, indeed: since I stood in
need of some stimulus to arouse me to an attitude, even of defence.
This thought swaying me, I called out:

"Holt! you are a brave man. I know it. Why should this go on? It is
not too late--"

"_You_ air a coward!" cried he, interrupting me, "an' I know it--a
sneakin' coward, in spite o' yur soger clothes! Shet up yur durned
head, or ye'll scare away the birds! an', by the tarnal! ef you do, I'll
fire at ye, the fust that takes wing!"

"Let that be the signal, then!" cried I, roused to an impatient
indignation by this new insult: "_the first that takes wing_!"

"Agreed!" was the quick rejoinder, delivered in a tone that bespoke
determination to abide by it.

My irresolution troubled me no longer. Thus driven to bay, I felt that
further forbearance would not only be idle, but dangerous. It was
playing with my life, to leave it in the hands of this unrelenting
enemy. Better make _him_ suffer for his sanguinary folly, than be
myself its victim. Stirred by these thoughts, I grasped my rifle--now
for the first time with a determination to make use of it. By the same
prompting, my eye became active--watching with resolute regard the
movements of the birds, and measuring the ground that separated me from
my adversary.

Notwithstanding the sting which his words had inflicted, I was yet
hampered by some considerations of mercy. I had no desire to _kill_ the
man, if I could avoid it. To "cripple" him would be sufficient. I had
no fear of his having the shot before me. Long practice had given me
such adroitness in the use of my weapon, that I could handle it with the
quickness and skill of a juggler. Neither did I fear to miss my aim. I
had perfect reliance on the sureness of my sight; and, with such a mark
as the huge body of the squatter, it was impossible I could miss. In
this respect, the advantage was mine; and, at so short a distance, I
could have insured a fatal shot--had such been my intention. But it was
not. The very contrary was my wish--to draw blood without inflicting a
mortal wound. This would perhaps satisfy the honour of my antagonist,
and bring our strife to an end.

Whether any such consideration was in his mind, I could not tell. It
was not visible in his eye--nor in his features that, throughout the
whole scene, preserved their stern statue-like rigidity. There was no
help for it--no alternative but to shoot at him, and shoot him