“’There are many reasons.  In the old days a man shot down another and then rode off on his horse and was forgotten, but in these days the telegraph is faster than any horse that was ever foaled.  They’d be sure to get you, sir, though you might dodge them for a while.  And I believe that for a crime such as you threaten, they have recently installed a little electric chair which is a perfectly good inducer of sleep—­in fact, it is better than a cradle.  Taking these things all into consideration, I take it for granted that you are bluffing, my friend, and one of my favourite occupations is calling a bluff.  You look dangerous, but I’ve an idea that you are as yellow as your moustache.’

“Sandy, he sort of swelled up all over like a poisoned dog.

“He says:  ‘I begin to see your style.  You want a clean man-handlin’, which suits me uncommon well.’

“With that, he lays down his guns, soft and careful, and puts up his fists, and goes for the other gent.

“He makes his pass, which should have sent the other gent into kingdom come.  But it didn’t.  No, sir, the tenderfoot, he seemed to evaporate.  He wasn’t there when the fist of Ferguson come along.  Ferguson, he checked up short and wheeled around and charged again like a bull.  And he missed again.  And so they kept on playin’ a sort of a game of tag over the place, the stranger jest side-steppin’ like a prize-fighter, the prettiest you ever seen, and not developin’ when Sandy started on one of his swings.

“At last one of Sandy’s fists grazed him on the shoulder and sort of peeved him, it looked like.  He ducks under Sandy’s next punch, steps in, and wallops Sandy over the eye—­that punch didn’t travel more’n six inches.  But it slammed Sandy down in a corner like he’s been shot.

“He was too surprised to be much hurt, though, and drags himself up to his feet, makin’ a pass at his pocket at the same time.  Then he came again, silent and thinkin’ of blood, I s’pose, with a knife in his hand.

“This time the tenderfoot didn’t wait.  He went in with a sort of hitch step, like a dancer.  Ferguson’s knife carved the air beside the tenderfoot’s head, and then the skinny boy jerked up his right and his left—­one, two—­into Sandy’s mouth.  Down he goes again—­slumps down as if all the bones in his body was busted—­right down on his face.  The other feller grabs his shoulder and jerks him over on his back.

“He stands lookin’ down at him for a moment, and then he says, sort of thoughtful:  ’He isn’t badly hurt, but I suppose I shouldn’t have hit him twice.’

“Can you beat that, Steve?  You can’t!

“When Sandy come to he got up to his feet, wobbling—­seen his guns—­went over and scooped ’em up, with the eye of the tenderfoot on him all the time—­scooped ’em up—­stood with ’em all poised—­and so he backed out through the door.  It wasn’t any pretty thing to see.  The tenderfoot, he turned to the bar again.