vill profe dat your mouth
vas der piggest bart uf you."

"I ain't goin' ter touch yer with my hands," declared the man from
'Rapahoe, once more producing the long-barreled revolver; "but I'll
shoot yer so full o' holes thet ye'll serve fer a milk-skimmer! Git down
on yer marrerbones an' pray!"

"Look here, mine friendt," calmly said the Jew, as the crowd began to
scatter to get out of the way of stray bullets, "uf you shood ad me, id
vill profe dat you vas a plowhardt und a cowart. Uf you shood ad me, der
beople uf dis blace vill haf a goot excuse to holdt a lynchings."

"Wa'al, I'm good fer this hull derned county! This town is too slow ter
skeer me any ter mention. Git down!"

"Uf I don'd do dat?"

"I'll shoot yer legs out from under yer clean up ter ther knees!"

"Vell, then, I subbose I vill haf to--do this!" Solomon had seemed on
the point of kneeling, but, instead of doing so, he ducked, leaped in
swiftly beneath the leveled revolver, caught Buckhorn by the wrist, and
wrenched the weapon from his hand, flinging it aside with the remark:

"I don'd vant to peen shot alretty, und, if you try dat again, you vill
ged hurt pad, vid der accent on der pad!"

Buckhorn seemed to be stupefied, and then, uttering another roar, he
lunged at the Jew, trying to grapple Solomon with his hands.

"I'll squeeze ther life out of yer!" snarled the ruffian.

"Oxcuse me uf I don'd lofe you vell enough to led you done that," said
the Jew, nimbly skipping aside. "Your nose shows you vas a greadt
trinker; shust dry my electric punch."

Crack! The knuckles of the Jew struck under the ear of the man from
'Rapahoe. It was a beautiful blow, and Buckhorn was knocked over in a
twinkling, striking heavily on his shoulder in the dust of the street.

The fall seemed to stun the man in leather breeches, but he soon sat up,
and then, seeing Solomon waiting for him to rise, he asked:

"Whar is it?"

"Vere vas vat?"

"Ther club you struck me with."

"Righd here," said the Jew, holding up his clinched hand.

"Haw! Ye don't mean ter say you didn't hit me with a club, or something
like a hunk o' quartz?"

"Dat vas der ding vat I hit you vid, mine friendt. Shust ged up, und I
vill profe id py hitting you again."

"Say!"

"Vell?"

"I don't allow thet I'm as well as I might be, an' I ain't spoiling' fer
trouble none whatever. I'm onter you. You're a perfessional pugilist in
disguise. If you'll let me git up, I'll go right away and