“I DON’T GENERALLY SHOOT TILL THE OTHER FELLER DRAWS.” ] The old man flushed as the chairman proceeded, and when the indictment reached its end, he replied, in a tone which indicated anything but respect for the court: “I’ve got just this to say, that I paid my way here, I’ve asked no odds of any man sence I’ve ben here, an’ that anybody that takes pains to meddle with my affairs is an impudent scoundrel!” Saying which, the old man turned to go, while the court was paralyzed into silence. But Tom Dosser, a new arrival, and a famous shot, now stepped in front of the old man. “I ax yer parding,” said Tom, in the blandest of tones, “but, uv course, yer didn’t mean me when yer mentioned impudent scoundrels?” “Yes, I did—I meant you, and ev’rybody like yer,” replied the old man. Tom’s hand moved toward his pistol. The chairman expeditiously got out of range. Stumpy Flukes promptly retired to the extreme end of the bar, and groaned audibly. The old man _was_ in the wrong; but, then, wasn’t it _too_ mean, when blood was so hard to get out, that these difficulties _always_ took place just after he’d got the floor clean? “I don’t generally shoot till the other feller draws,” explained Tom Dosser, while each man in the room wept with emotion as they realized they had lived to see Tom’s skill displayed before their very eyes—“I don’t generally shoot till the other feller draws; but you’d better be spry. I usually make a little allowance for age, but——” Tom’s further explanations were indefinitely delayed by an abnormal contraction of his trachea, the same being induced by the old man’s right hand, while his left seized the unhappy Thomas by his waist-belt, and a second later the dead shot of Blugsey’s was tossed into the middle of the floor, somewhat as a sheaf of oats is tossed by a practiced hand. “Anybody else?” inquired the old man. “I’ll back Vermont bone an’ muscle agin’ the hull passel of ye, even if I _be_ a deacon. ‘The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him.’” “The angel needn’t hurry hisself,” said Tom Dosser, picking himself up, one joint at a time. “Ef that’s the crowd yer travelin’ with, and they’ve got a grip anything like yourn, I don’t want nothin’ to do with ’em.” Boston Ben looked excited, and roared: “This court’s adjourned _sine die_.” Then he rushed up to the newly announced deacon, caught him firmly by the right hand, slapped him heartily between the shoulders, and inquired, rather indignantly: “Say, old Angelchum, why didn’t you ever let folks know yer style, instead uv trottin’ ‘round like a melancholy clam with his shells shut up tight? That’s what this crowd wants to know! Now yev opened down to bed-rock, we’ll git English Sam from Sonora, an’ git up the tallest kind uv a rasslin’ match.” “Not unless English Sam meddles with my business, you won’t,” replied the deacon, quickly. “I’ve got enough to do fightin’ speretual foes.”