"Don't be a fool, John," cautioned Bradley. "Be ashamed o' yorese'f,
Toot! Drap that gun, an' fight like a man ur not at all!"

Wambush's eye ran along the revolver, following every movement of
Westerfelt's with the caution of a panther watching dangerous prey.

"One more inch and you are a dead man!" he said, slowly.

Mrs. Floyd, who was on the veranda, cried out and threw her arms round
Harriet, who seemed ready to run between the two men. No one quite saw
how it happened, but Westerfelt suddenly bent near the earth and sprang
forward. Wambush's revolver went off over his head, and before he
could cock it again, Westerfelt, with a swift sweep of his arm, had
sent it spinning through a window-pane in the hotel.

"Ah!" escaped somebody's lips in the silent crowd, and the two men,
closely on the alert, faced each other.

"Part 'em, men; what are you about?" cried Mrs. Floyd.

"Yes, part 'em," laughed a man on the edge of the crowd; "somebody 'll
get his beauty spiled; Toot kin claw like a pant'er; I don't know what
t'other man kin do, but he looks game."

"No, let 'em fight it out fa'r an' squar'," suggested red-faced Buck
Hillhouse, the bar-keeper, in the autocratic tone he used in conducting
cock-fights in his back yard.

The blood had left Westerfelt's face. Wambush's eyes gleamed
desperately; disarmed, he looked less a man than an infuriated beast.
Westerfelt was waiting for him to make the attack, but, unlike his
antagonist, was growing calmer every second. All at once Wambush sent
his right arm towards Westerfelt's face so quickly that the spectators
scarcely saw it leave his side, but it was not quicker than
Westerfelt's left, which skilfully parried the thrust. Then, before
Toot could shield himself, Westerfelt struck him with the force of a
battering-ram squarely in the mouth.

Wambush whined in pain, spat blood from gashed lips, and shook his head
like a lion wounded in the mouth. He ran backward a few feet to
recover himself, and then, with a mad cry, rushed at Westerfelt and
caught him by the throat. Westerfelt tried to shake him off, but he
was unsuccessful. He attempted to strike him in the face, but Wambush
either dodged the thrusts or caught them in his thick hair. It seemed
that Westerfelt's only chance now was to throw his assailant down, but
his strength had left him, Wambush's claws had sunk into his neck like
prongs of steel. He could not breathe.

"Hit 'im in the bread-baske