"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.

"Don't be a fool, John," cautioned Bradley. "Be ashamed o' yorese'f,
Toot! Drap that gun, an' fight like a man ur not at all!"

Wambush's eye ran along the revolver, following every movement of
Westerfelt's with the caution of a panther watching dangerous prey.

"One more inch and you are a dead man!" he said, slowly.

Mrs. Floyd, who was on the veranda, cried out and threw her arms round
Harriet, who seemed ready to run between the two men. No one quite saw
how it happened, but Westerfelt suddenly bent near the earth and sprang
forward. Wambush's revolver went off over his head, and before he
could cock it again, Westerfelt, with a swift sweep of his arm, had
sent it spinning through a window-pane in the hotel.

"Ah!" escaped somebody's lips in the silent crowd, and the two men,
closely on the alert, faced each other.

"Part 'em, men; what are you about?" cried Mrs. Floyd.

"Yes, part 'em," laughed a man on the edge of the crowd; "somebody 'll
get his beauty spiled; Toot kin claw like a pant'er; I don't know what