"I'm not going to argue with you and I'm not going to have traitors in my command. If you remain in my battalion from this point on, it's because I permit you to do it. I can have you transferred or bob-tailed. I don't want to do either. You have made a good soldier. I don't want to ruin you for a personal reason." "Do ye reckon," the private's voice broke out like an explosion, "thet ye kin buy me off with fair talk thet-a-way? Ye couldn't do hit ef ye made me a major-general." Falkins smiled grimly. "Why should I buy you off?" he inquired. "Do you imagine I am afraid of you?" He rose abruptly from the cot, and, as his enemy stood twitching frenziedly in every feature and muscle, unbuckled his belt and tossed it with its saber and revolver to the table half-way between them. "There," curtly announced the commissioned officer, "you are as close to that gun as I am. Why don't you pick it up?" With a snarl like an unleashed wild-cat and a swift noiseless movement, Private Newt Spooner leaped forward. His eyes were still burning into the face of his superior and his right hand crept out slowly until its fingers had caressingly touched and closed around the grip of the service pistol. Then, in a forward-leaning and strained attitude, he paused and stood statuesquely holding the pose. Falkins had put his arms at his back and stepped forward until the two were directly across the table, then the officer suggested quietly, "You'd better hurry. We'll be interrupted." For a moment, neither moved nor spoke. The private's breath came and went in gasps. Slowly Newt Spooner shook his head and withdrew his hand from his weapon. The joy had gone out of his enterprise. His victim had not suffered any terror or sense of defeat. It was not as he had pictured it. Whether he shot or did not shoot, Major Henry Falkins would be the victor of that encounter. He straightened up again, and spoke slowly and in bitterness: "You penitentiaried me--an' ye thought ye had me thar fer life. Now, when ye've got things fixed jest ter suit ye, ye makes a big play when ye knows I hain't a-goin' ter take ye up. I hates ye wuss then pizen--an' I'm a-goin' ter kill ye, but I'm a-goin' ter pick my own time an' place. Damn ye ter hell! I hain't give up my notion. I'm goin' ter git ye--but not now." "All right." Falkins again buckled on his belt. "When this war is over, we can settle our affairs. As long as you are in my command, your military duties come first. Is that agreed?" "I hain't makin' no promises. I may git ye in a year. I may git ye in a month. I'd ruther hev ye jest study erbout thet." "Spooner, you are a fool." The officer spoke rather contemptuously. "You have sworn to two oaths. One is personal; the other is national. You swore, when you were mustered in, to fight the battles of your country. Now you are either going to keep that oath, or leave the service. Which is it to be?" "Hit 'pears like thar hain't a-goin' ter be no battles ter fight."