Mr. Ware accepted this statement with equanimity, not to say indifference.

“Are you ready?” he asked; he glanced at Mahaffy, who by a slight inclination of the head signified that he was.  “I reckon you’re a green hand at this sort of thing?” commented Tom evilly.

“Yes,” said Mahaffy tersely.

“Well, listen:  I shall count, one, two, three; at the word three you will fire.  Now take your positions.”

Mahaffy and the colonel stood facing each other, a distance of twelve paces separating them.  Mahaffy was pale but dogged, he eyed Fentress unflinchingly.  Quick on the word Fentress fired, an instant later Mahaffy’s pistol exploded; apparently neither bullet had taken effect, the two men maintained the rigid attitude they had assumed; then Mahaffy was seen to turn on his heels, next his arm dropped to his side and the pistol slipped from his fingers, a look of astonishment passed over his face and left it vacant and staring while his right hand stole up toward his heart; he raised it slowly, with difficulty, as though it were held down by some invisible weight.

A hush spread across the field.  It was like one of nature’s invisible transitions.  Along the edge of the woods the song of birds was stricken into silence.  Ware, heavy-eyed Fentress, his lips twisted by a tortured smile, watched Mahaffy as he panted for breath, with his hand clenched against his chest.  That dead oppressive silence lasted but a moment, from out of it came a cry that smote on the wounded man’s ears and reached his consciousness.

“It’s Price—­” he gasped, his words bathed in blood. and he pitched forward on his face.

Ware and Fentress had heard the cry, too, and running to their horses threw themselves into the saddle and galloped off.  The judge midway of the meadow roared out a furious protest but the mounted men turned into the highroad and vanished from sight, and the judge’s shaking legs bore him swiftly in the direction of the gaunt figure on the ground.

Mahaffy struggled to rise, for he was hearing his friend’s voice now, the voice of utter anguish, calling his name.  At last painful effort brought him to his knees.  He saw the judge, clothed principally in a gaily colored bed-quilt, hatless and shoeless, his face sodden and bleary from his night’s debauch.  Mahaffy stood erect and staggered toward him, his hand over his wound, his features drawn and livid, then with a cry he dropped at his friend’s feet.

“Solomon!  Solomon!” And the judge knelt beside him.

“It’s all right, Price; I kept your appointment,” whispered Mahaffy; a bloody spume was gathering on his lips, and he stared up at his friend with glassy eyes.

In very shame the judge hid his face in his hands, while sobs shook him.

“Solomon—­Solomon, why did you do this?” he cried miserably.

The harsh lines on the dying man’s face erased themselves.