Bill, who’s as quick an’ strong as a mountain lion, with forty times the heart an’ fire, grips one McCandlas party by the wrist. Thar’s a twist an’ a wrench an’ Bill onj’ints his arm. That’s the last of the battle Bill remembers. All is whirl an’ smoke an’ curse an’ stagger an’ cut an’ stab after that, with tables crashin’ an’ the wreck an’ jangle of glass. But the end comes. Whether the struggle from the moment when it’s got down to the bowies lasts two minutes or twenty, Bill never can say. When it’s over, Bill finds himse’f still on his feet, an’ he’s pushin’ the last gent off his blade. Split through the heart, this yere last sport falls to the floor in a dead heap, an’ Bill’s alone, blood to both shoulders. Is Bill hurt? Gents, it ain’t much likely he’s put ’leven fightin’ men into the misty beyond, the final four with a knife, an’ him plumb scatheless! No, Bill’s slashed so he wouldn’t hold hay; an’ thar’s more bullets in his frame than thar’s pease in a pod. The Doc who is called in, an’ who prospects Bill, allers allowed that it’s the mistake of his life he don’t locate Bill an’ work him for a lead mine. When the battle is over an’ peace resoomes its sway, Bill begins to stagger. An’ he’s preyed on by thirst. Bill steadies himse’f along the wall; an’ weak an’ half blind from the fogs of fightin’, he feels his way out o’ doors. Thar’s a tub of rain-water onder the eaves; it’s the only thing Bill’s thinkin’ of at the last. He bends down to drink; an’ with that, faints an’ falls with his head in the tub. It’s the widow who rescoos Bill; she emerges outen her cyclone cellar an’ saves Bill from drownin’. An’ he lives, too; lives to be downed years afterward when up at Deadwood a timid party who don’t dare come ’round in front, drills Bill from the r’ar. But what can you look for? Folks who lives by the sword will perish by the sword as the scripters sets forth, an’ I reckons now them warnin’s likewise covers guns. “And did that really happen?” asked the Red Nosed Gentleman, drawing a deep breath. “It’s as troo as that burgundy you’re absorbin’,” replied the Old Cattleman. “I can well believe it,” observed the Sour Gentleman; “a strong hour makes a strong man. Did this Wild Bill Hickox wed the widow who pulled him out of the tub?” “Which I don’t think so,” returned the Old Cattleman. “If he does, Bill keeps them nuptials a secret. But it’s a cinch he don’t. As I says at the jump, Bill is a mighty wary citizen an’ not likely to go walkin’ into no sech ambuscade as a widow.” “You do not think, then,” observed the Red Nosed Gentleman, “that a wife would be a blessing?”