Webb dictates a passel of p’lite queries to this yere black stranger. Tharupon, the black stranger bows p’lite an’ formal, an’ goin’ over to the table writes down in good English, “I’m deef an’ dumb.” Next, he searches outen his war-bags a letter. It’s from Old Houston over on the Brazos. Old Houston allows that onless Austin comes trailin’ in with them records within three days, he’ll ride over a whole lot an’ make the round-up himse’f. Old Houston declar’s that Austin by virchoo of them Comanches is as on-safe as a Christian in Mississippi, an’ he don’t aim to face no sech dangers while performin’ his dooties as President of the Commonwealth. After the black stranger flings the letter on the table, he’s organizin’ to go out through the winder ag’in. But Morton sort o’ detains him. Morton writes on the paper that now the black stranger is through his dooties as a postman, he will, if he’s a dead game sport, stay over a day, an’ him an’ Morton will entertain themse’fs by pullin’ off a war of their own. The idee strikes the black stranger as plenty good, an’ while his face still wears its ca’m, hard look, he writes onder Morton’s bluff: “Rifles; no’th bank of the Colorado; sun-down, this evenin’.” The next moment he leaps from the platform to the winder an’ from thar to the ground, an’ is gone. “But Colonel Morton,” reemonstrates Webb, who’s some scand’lized at Morton hookin’ up for blood with this yere black stranger; “you-all shorely don’t aim to fight this party? He’s deef an’ dumb, which is next to bein’ locoed outright. Moreover, a gent of your standin’ can’t afford to go ramblin’ about, lockin’ horns with every on-known miscreant who comes buttin’ in with a missif from President Houston, an’ then goes stampedin’ through a winder by way of exit.” “Onknown!” retorts Morton. “That letterpackin’ person is as well known as the Rio Grande. That’s Deef Smith.” “Colonel Morton,” observes Webb, some horrified when he learns the name of the black stranger, “this yere Deef Smith is a shore shot. They say he can empty a Comanche saddle four times in five at three hundred yards.” “That may be as it may,” returns Morton. “If I downs him, so much the more credit; if he gets me, at the worst I dies by a famous hand.” The sun is restin’ on the sky-line over to the west. Austin has done crossed the Colorado an’ lined up to witness this yere dooel. Deef Smith comes ridin’ in from some’ers to the no’th, slides outen the saddle, pats his hoss on the neck, an’ leaves him organized an’ ready fifty yards to one side. Then Deef Smith steps to the center an’ touches his hat, mil’tary fashion, to Morton an’ Webb. These yere cavaliers is to shoot it out at one hundred yards. As they takes their places, Morton says: “Jedge Webb, if this Deef Smith party gets me, as most like he will, send my watch to my mother in Looeyville.”