“It will cost you your life, sir,” said the captain, with a stern military ring in his voice. “There is but one way to avert the calamity in which your corpse must necessarily figure as the principal attraction.” “How, Captain? For God’s sake tell me,” begged the now trembling editor. The captain explained the conditions. “Suppress all of the present issue possible, run off another issue of the paper, containing an amende honorable, and take a horsewhipping. Otherwise, death.” The terms were agreed upon instantly, and the captain hurried back to inform the major of the “unconditional surrender,” and to prepare a copy of an amende honorable, while the frightened editor commenced making preparations for a special edition. That afternoon the World again made its appearance, and contained the following retraction: “AMENDE HONORABLE.” “At the solicitation of Lem. Webb, Esq., and on account of a promise of five dollars, I maliciously and wilfully permitted a libelous and untruthful item to appear in the columns of the World this morning, derogatory to the character of Mai. Buell Hampton. “This open letter is a public acknowledgment on the part of the editor of the World that he knew the item in question to be a malicious lie, at the time it was published, and he hereby publicly apologizes to Major Hampton. The editor further desires to state that he personally knows Major Hampton to be a cultured gentleman of unquestionable moral character,—a man whose high sense of honor and integrity is above reproach. Respectfully, “Frank Fewer, “Editor of the World.” That evening Bill Kinneman and Dan Spencer waited upon Editor Fewer at his home. “Hello! gentlemen,” said Fewer as he came down the walk in front of his house to meet his callers. “Hello! yourself,” replied Dan Spencer. “We only called jist fur a minit. We’s in a pow’rful big hurry. We’ve got Major Hampton’s proxy to hosswhup ye.” “Oh, come, gentlemen,” whined Fewer, “after the retraction I published, the major can’t really mean to subject me to so great a humiliation.” “I reckon that’s about the size of it,” said Spencer, trembling with a wrath that made his fang-like tooth wobble from one side to the other as if it were trying to dodge a calamity. “We’re not a-bustin’ with perliteness,” said Spencer, “in projectin’ ‘round over the range this ‘ere way, I suppose, but I’m assoomin’ dooty is dooty an’ jestice knows no fav’rites.” Frank Fewer turned, and fled with all the speed that he could command. Bill Kinneman sprang into his saddle and, touching spurs to his horse, galloped madly after him. The cowboy loosened his lariat as he rode, and swung the coil dexterously over his head several times. Then, with a quick, powerful twitch, the rope shot out like an arrow after the sprinting editor. The loop fell over his head and shoulders, then tightened, binding his arms to his sides. A few minutes later Frank Fewer was a horsewhipped editor.