“It was conceded by Overton and myself, as we went up and down the business in advance, that Dickenson would kill me. Our hope was that I'd last long enough to kill him--he, the defamer of my wife! “The thought on our side was for me to brace myself and take Dickenson's fire. I could not rival him for quickness or for sureness. And the haste of an attempt would waste and throw away my aim. “We were put up, I say; the words were to be 'Fire--one--two--three--stop!' We might fire at any moment between 'Fire!' and 'Stop!' And Overton had the word. As I took my place I slipped a bullet into my mouth. I would set my teeth on it to steady my hand. “Overton cried the word and began the count. With the word 'Fire!' Dickenson's weapon flashed. I heard the roar of it, and felt the numb, dull shock as the lead crashed into my side. But I sustained myself. I was held on my feet by hate. I thought he had slain me, but with him out of hell I would not rest in my grave. “When I did not fall, but stood firm, Dickenson started back. “'My God, I have missed him!' he cried. “'Step to your peg, sir,' roared Overton, pausing in his count and cocking a pistol; 'step to your peg, or I'll blow your head from your body!' “Dickenson stood again to his peg and turned his eyes from me; his face was the color of tobacco ashes. “Overton resumed his count. 'One!' 'Click!'” My pistol caught at half-cock. Overton paused and I re-cocked my pistol; Dickenson white and firm to his peg--a man who had played his life away. “'Two!' cried Overton. “My pistol responded; the lead tore its way through the midst of Dickenson's body. He crippled slowly down on one knee; and then he fell along on his face, and next turned over on his back with a sort of twitching jerk. I never took my eyes from him.” “And your wound,” said I, “was a serious one, I well know that.” “My ribs were broken, while my boot was clogged with the blood which ran down beneath my garments. The bullet I placed between my teeth was crushed as flat as a two-bit piece.” “It was hardy work,” said I, “bearing up and firing on the heels of such a wound.” “Sir, I was thinking on her”--glancing at the miniature. “I should have killed that man though he had put his bullet through my heart.” Here the General turned his face towards me; his eyes were shining with the lambent orange glow one sees in the panther's eyes at night. There was silence, I still looking on the General. His nervous face was twitching. Then the frown on his forehead gave way to quiet sadness. Rising, he stood by the mantel and gazed for long, and tenderly, on the miniature of his dead dear one.