But he was destined to meet disaster at the moment when his prestige was greatest, and from a source the very last that either the desperado himself or any one else would have thought capable of resistance to his will. Among the dozen or so plank sheds along Red-hot Street, that had up the name of “Restaurant,” was a rough box of a place presided over by a little German. He was a meek-looking, pink-and-white little man, with weak eyes sheltered behind a pair of large spectacles. He was an industrious fellow, who attended strictly to his business, and whose only name, so far as we knew, was Gus. One morning Tiger Bill rose in an unusually ferocious frame of mind. The luck had been against him at cards the night before, and his morning potations had not sufficed to soothe his ruffled spirits. Walking along Red-hot Street, he spied little Gus hard at work in his shed. The sight seemed to fire Bill’s soul with a desire to exploit his fame in the place. He felt assured that the inoffensive little German was a tenderfoot ready to his hand, on whom he could demonstrate his valor and satisfy his desire for blood and fame in perfect safety to himself. “It’s a long time,” he remarked to the henchman at his side; “it’s a long time since I had a man for breakfast. Watch me get the little Dutchman.” So saying, he strode into the place, with his revolver held ostentatiously in his right hand. Walking up to the rough board counter, he said: “Here, you little, sore-eyed cuss, give me half a dozen raw oysters. Do it pretty quick, too, if you know what is good for yourself.” Gus hastened to fill the order. Not a sign did he show of fear, but some remarked later that he served the oysters with his left hand. “Here,” shouted Bill. “What do you mean sticking such oysters as them under my nose?” And at the word he dashed the contents of the dish full in the face of the German. As he did so, he threw up his hand holding the revolver. Beyond question he meant to kill Gus. But Tiger Bill never fired that shot. Quicker than even his trained and murderous hand, quick as a flash, indeed, the little German’s hand came up, and it held a big, old-fashioned Colt revolver, and in an instant the desperado was as dead as he could reasonably expect to be, with a bullet hole drilled neatly through his head. A great crowd instantly rushed in. Bill lay dead upon the floor, his right hand still holding the revolver; behind the counter stood Gus, quietly wiping off the mess of oysters from his face and the counter. “Good Lord, Gus, what have you done?” shouted one. “Mine Gott,” replied Gus. “Vat must I do? He vas schlapped me mit der oysters of der face already, und he vas his gun have ready to shoot. Next time maybe he takes a tenderfoot, maybe! Eh?”