difficulty."

"Will you do it outside, then?" sneered Wambush.

Westerfelt hesitated, and looked at the crowd that filled the door and
stood peering in at the window. Mrs. Floyd was running up and down in
the hall, excitedly calling for Harriet, but the crowd was too anxious
to hear Westerfelt's reply to notice her.

"If nothing else will suit you, yes," answered Westerfelt, calmly. "I
don't think human beings ought to spill blood over a matter of
business, and I don't like to fight a man that's drinking, but since
you have behaved so in this lady's presence, I'm really kinder in the
notion."

"Come on, then," blustered Wambush. "I'm either yore meat or you are
mine." He turned to the door and pushed the crowd before him as he
stamped out of the hall into the street.

Harriet ran between Westerfelt and the door. She put her hands on his
shoulders and looked at him beseechingly. "Don't go out there," she
pleaded; "stay here and let him cool off; he is drinking! He's a
dangerous man."

He took her hands and held them for an instant and then dropped them.
"I'm afraid he's been humored too much," he smiled. "I'd never have
any respect for myself if I was to back down now. I've known his kind
to be cured by a good, sound thrashing, when nothing else would do any
good."

She raised her hands again, but he avoided her gently and went out into
the street. Wambush stood on the sidewalk a few yards from the door,
one booted foot on the curbstone, the other on the ground. He had
thrown his broad-brimmed hat on the ground, and tossed his long hair
back over his shoulders. His left hand rested on his raised knee, his
right was in the pocket of his short coat.

"Come on, if you ain't too weak-kneed," he jeered, as Westerfelt
appeared on the veranda.

Westerfelt advanced towards Wambush, but when he was within a few feet
of him, Wambush suddenly drew a revolver, cocked it, and deliberately
raised it. Westerfelt stopped and looked straight into Wambush's eyes.

"I'm unarmed," said he; "I never carry a pistol; is that the way you do
your fighting?"

"That's yore lookout, not mine, d----n you!"

Just then Luke Bradley ran up the sidewalk and out on the veranda near
Westerfelt. He had a warning on his lips, but seeing the critical
situation he said nothing. A white, tigerish look came into the face
of Westerfelt. The cords of his neck tightened as he leaned slowly
towards Wambush. He was about to spring.