too gleeful. Jest to
spar' Nell's feelin's, Cherokee, an' not to interfere with no gent's
little game, I takes your hand an' plays it.'

"'Not none,' says Cherokee; 'this is my deal. Don't cry, Nellie,' he
adds, smoothin' down her yaller ha'r. 'Folks in my business has to
hold themse'fs ready to face any game on the word, an' they never
weakens or lays down. An' another thing, little girl; I gets this Red
Dog sharp shore. I'm in the middle of a run of luck; I holds fours
twice last night, with a flush an' a full hand out ag'in 'em.'

"Nell at last lets go of Cherokee's neck, an', bein' a female an' timid
that a-way, allows she'll go, an' won't stop to see the shootin' none.
We applauds the idee, thinkin' she might shake Cherokee some if she
stays; an' of course a gent out shootin' for his life needs his nerve.

"Well, the twenty minutes is up; the Red Dog man gets his rifle offen
his saddle an' goes down the middle of the street. Turnin' up his big
sombrero, he squares 'round, cocks his gun, an' waits. Then Enright
goes out with Cherokee an' stands him in the street about a hundred
yards from the Red Dog man. After Cherokee's placed he holds up his
hand for attention an' says:

"'When all is ready I stands to one side an' drops my hat. You-alls
fires at will.'

"Enright goes over to the side of the street, counts 'one,' 'two,'
'three,' an' drops his hat. Bangety! Bang! Bang! goes the rifles like
the roll of a drum. Cherokee can work a Winchester like one of these
yere Yankee 'larm-clocks, an' that Red Dog hold-up don't seem none
behind.

"About the fifth fire the Red Dog man sorter steps for'ard an' drops
his gun; an' after standin' onsteady for a second, he starts to
cripplin' down at his knees. At last he comes ahead on his face like a
landslide. Thar's two bullets plum through his lungs, an' when we gets
to him the red froth is comin' outen his mouth some plenteous.

"We packs him back into the Red Light an' lays him onto a monte-table.
Bimeby he comes to a little an' Peets asks him whatever he thinks he
wants.

"'I wants you-alls to take off my moccasins an' pack me into the
street,' says the Red Dog man. 'I ain't allowin' for my old mother in
Missoury to be told as how I dies in no gin-mill, which she shorely
'bominates of 'em. An' I don't die with no boots on, neither.'

"We-alls packs him back into the street ag'in, an' pulls away at his
boots. About the time we gets 'em off he sags b