There, one day, in a saloon which is somewhat famous as a resort for sporting characters, he became involved in a discussion with a stranger, the conversation leading to the subject of boxing. Ben, who felt the utmost confidence in his own fists, was not disposed to hear challenges thrown out at random without signifying his willingness to accept the same. The stranger in question, who may be designated by the title of Baldy, was disposed to be somewhat personal in his remarks. "I tell you what it is," he exclaimed, bringing his fist down on the bar with an emphatic thump, "I can lick any man that ever came from the North!" Ben looked upon this as an invitation to respond, which he did promptly. "I'm from the North," he said, "and I'm willing to fight you whenever you say so." "From the North, are you?" returned Baldy. "Well, I reckon you must have come by the way of Germany, didn't you? You don't suppose any damned Dutchman can fight with a Southern gentleman, do you?" Ben quietly signified his belief that, in spite of his being "a damned Dutchman," he could furnish the Southern "gentleman" with all the satisfaction he wanted. This dispute culminated in an agreement to proceed at once to a spot in the outskirts of the city, where the Southerner and Hogan could settle matters without delay. Ben had no friends in the city, but he carried with him a six-shooter, and was ready enough to accept any risks for the sake of a fight. The party, consisting of half a dozen spectators besides the principals, drove to the spot agreed upon. Ben and his antagonist threw off their coats, and faced each other for business. Hogan supposed the fight was to be a fair contest with the fists, and had no suspicion of any more serious encounter. For a time the Southerner parried and dealt the blows in a scientific manner; but becoming enraged at a blinder in the left eye, he clinched with Ben, and the match became a rough-and-tumble fight. It was very hot on both sides while it lasted. Ben fought like a tiger, and Baldy fumed and swore, as they rolled over the ground. Finally, seeing that Ben was too much for him, he drew a revolver, and seizing the opportunity, held the muzzle close to Hogan's temple, and pulled the trigger. The weapon missed fire, and before he could cock it again, Ben had whipped out his own shooter, and in another moment the sharp report of a pistol rang out on the air! The men had struggled to their feet during the encounter, but now the Southerner fell back, exclaiming: "My God, I am shot!" The bullet had nearly done its work with terrible certainty. Ben's antagonist lay stretched there for dead. He had fired purely in self-defense, and this fact was so apparent to the entire party that they made no effort to attack our hero.