“Call me Ewalt,” jeered the other, nastily.  “Nobody’ll hear it, an’ you’ll not live to tell it.  Ewalt, Tex Ewalt; call me that.”

“So you’ve come back after all this time to make me get you, have you?  Well, I ain’t a-going to shoot no buttons off you this time.  I allus reckoned you learned something at Muddy Wells—­but you’ll learn it here,” Hopalong rejoined, sliding into a depression, and working with great caution towards the dry river bed, where fallen trees and hillocks of sand provided good cover in plenty.  Everything was clear now and despite the seriousness of the situation he could not repress a smile as he remembered vividly that day at the carnival when Tex Ewalt came to town with the determination to kill him and show him up as an imitation.  His grievance against Elkins was petty when compared to that against Ewalt, and he began to force the issue.  As he peered over a stranded log he caught sight of his enemy disappearing into another part of the thicket, and two of his three shots went home.  Elkins groaned with pain and fear as he realized that his right knee-cap was broken and would make him slow in his movements.  He was lamed for life, even if he did come out of the duel alive; lamed in the same way that Hopalong was—­the affliction he had made cruel sport of had come to him.  But he had plenty of courage and he returned the fire with remarkable quickness, his two shots sounding almost as one.

Hopalong wiped the blood from his cheek and wormed his way to a new place; when half way there he called out again, “How’s yore health—­Tex?” in mock sympathy.

Elkins lied manfully and when he looked to get in another shot his enemy was on the farther bank, moving up to get behind him.  He did not know Hopalong’s new position until he raised his head to glance down over the dried river bed, and was informed by a bullet that nicked his ear.  As he ducked, another grazed his head, the third going wild.  He hazarded a return shot, and heard Hopalong’s laugh ring out again.

“Like the story Lucas told, the best shot is going to win out this time, too,” the Bar-20 man remarked, grimly.  “You thought a game like this would give you some chance against a better shot, didn’t you?  You are a fool.”

“It ain’t over yet, not by a damned sight!” came the retort.

“An’ you thought you had a little the best of it if you stayed still an’ let me do the moving, didn’t you?  You’ll learn something before I get through with you:  but it’ll be too late to do you any good,” Hopalong called, crouched below a hillock of sand so the other could not take advantage of the words and single him out for a shot.

“You can’t learn me nothing, you assassin; I’ve got my eyes open, this time.”  He knew that he had had them open before, and that Hopalong was in no way an assassin; but if he could enrage his enemy and sting him into some reflex carelessness he might have the last laugh.