“It is the day of the year,” said the General, and his steady voice was low, “whereon I killed Dickenson. This is the one I used,” and he stretched his long arm and offered it for my inspection. It had a ribbon of black about the butt. “That is not for Dickenson,” he explained; “it is for her.” Here he indicated that miniature of his wife from which he would never be parted, where it rested on the mantel and looked down upon us with the painted eyes. “You speak in a queer way,” I said; “do you regret killing the man?” “No,” he returned, half sadly; “I do not regret killing him.” “Tell me of it,” I urged. “I was not about, and Overton went with you to the field.” The General never named his fight with Dickenson to others, but I was sure he would tell the tale to me. In good truth, I had not asked for it, save that, knowing him far better than I knew myself, I saw what was in his manner to make me believe he would be the lighter after the relation. “Dickenson,” said the General, making no flourish of talk in explanation of a readiness to describe adventures which some folk for the red ending might have shrunk from; “Dickenson was the tool of a conspiracy made against my life, and politics was at the bottom of it. I was too popular; I was in the way; the grave was a place for me; thus argued my enemies. And then they went about to draw in Dickenson to be their cat's-paw. “Dickenson was young and vain, and withal willingly cruel enough to act as my murderer for the illustration it would bring. He counted himself safe, since he was reckoned the surest, quickest hand in all the world. The man could shoot from the hip like a flash, and as accurately as one might put one's finger. “Once the plan was laid, Dickenson took a sure course; he spoke evil of my wife.” Here the General picked up the two pistols, a butt in either hand, and looked first upon the one and then upon its fellow. “Following my marriage, with every dollar I owned, I bought these pistols. They are hair-triggers and a breath unhooks them. Also, they are sighted to shoot as fine and as true as the moral law. I gave to their purchase my last dollar, and devoted them to the destruction of what scoundrels should vilify my wife. They have done their work and never failed me. “Overton was to act my second, and we would fight in Kentucky, sixty miles away. All day we traveled; the Dickenson party preceded us over the same trail. At every squatter's cabin the inmates would call us to the wizard work of Dickenson. Here he shot the head from a fowl; there he cut the string by which a gourd was hanging; now he drove a nail at twenty paces. It was a trick to shake my nerve. “We would fight in the early morning, each standing to a peg twelve paces apart. Overton won the word and the pistols. I was dressed in a black coat, loose and long, and with no white to show at the throat and coax a bullet. We were given our places, I to my joy with my favorite pistol.