Betting became furious—each man fought so splendidly, that the boys were wild with delight and enthusiasm. Bets were roared back and forth, and when Pentecost, by virtue of his universally conceded authority, commanded silence, there was a great deal of finger-telegraphy across the circle, and head-shaking in return. Such exquisite carving had never before been seen at Hanney’s—that was freely admitted by all. Men pitied absent miners all over the State, and wondered why this delightful lingering, long-drawn-out system of slaughter was not more popular than the brief and commonplace method of the revolver. The Webfoot rapturously and softly quoted the good Doctor Watt’s: “My willing soul would stay In such a place as this, And——” when suddenly his cup of bliss was dashed to the ground, for Billy, stumbling, fell upon his own knife, and received a severe cut in the abdomen. Wounds of this sort are generally fatal, and the boys had experience enough in such matters to know it. In an instant the men who had been calmly viewing a life-and-death conflict bestirred themselves to help the sufferer. Pentecost passed the bottle of brandy over the counter; half a dozen men ran to the spring for cold water; others hastily tore off coats, and even shirts, with which to soften a bench for the wounded man. No one went for the Doctor, for that worthy had been viewing the fight professionally from the first, and had knelt beside the wounded man at exactly the right moment. After a brief examination, he gave his opinion in the following professional style: “No go, Billy; you’re done for.” “Good God!” exclaimed the Judge, who had watched the Doctor with breathless interest; “ain’t ther’ no chance?” “Nary,” replied the Doctor, decidedly. “I’m a ruined man—I’m a used-up cuss,” said the Judge, with a look of bitter anguish. “I wish I’d gone under, too.” “Easy, old hoss,” suggested one of the boys; “_you_ didn’t do him, yer know.” “That’s what’s the matter!” roared the Judge, savagely; “nobody’ll ever know which of us whipped.” And the Judge sorrowfully took himself off, declining most resolutely to drink. Many hearts were full of sympathy for the Judge; but the poor fellow on the bench seemed to need most just then. He had asked for some one who could write, and was dictating, in whispers, a letter to some person. Then he drank some brandy, and then some water; then he freely acquitted the Judge of having ever fought any way but fairly. But still his mind seemed burdened. Finally, in a very thin, weak voice, he stammered out: “I don’t want—to make—to make it uncomfortable—for—for any of—you fellers, but—is ther’ a—a preacher in the camp?”