"Oh, my God!" Zeb broke out; "would I be standin' here if I didn'?"

The stranger rose to his feet, and drew out his pistols slowly.

"It's a thousand pities," he said; "for I never saw a man develop
character so fast."

He cocked the triggers, and handed the pistols to Zeb, to take his
choice.

"Stand where you are, while I step out fifteen paces." He walked slowly
along the fosse, and, at the end of that distance, faced about.
"Shall I give the word?"

Zeb nodded, watching him sullenly.

"Very well. I shall count three slowly, and after that we can fire as
we please. Are you ready?--stand a bit sideways. Your chest is a
pretty broad target--that's right; I'm going to count.
_One--two--three--_"

The word was hardly spoken before one of the pistols rang out. It was
Zeb's; and Heaven knows whither his bullet flew. The smoke cleared away
in a blue, filmy streak, and revealed his enemy standing where he stood
before, with his pistol up, and a quiet smile on his face.

Still holding the pistol up, the stranger now advanced deliberately
until he came to a halt about two paces from Zeb, who, with white face
and set jaw, waited for the end. The eyes of the two men met, and
neither flinched.