But no shot would be fired--or not at that time--for Isham had given the word to stand back; and as the gunmen grinned and weakened even Sharps' snake-like eyes took on a glint that was Indian for a smile. He was all Indian, this eldest of the fighting Bassett tribe, slow and stolid but immovable as a wall. No matter what the odds, Sharps Bassett would never run; and his old battered rifle had killed more bears and lions than any other gun in the country. He stood there now like a grizzly bear at bay; and Bill, seeing the Texans filing in for a drink, turned his eyes to the smart-Aleck Elmo. "Put down that gun," he challenged, as Elmo began to roll his pistol, "and I'll come over there and whip you." "I don't haf to!" retorted Elmo, raising his pistol with a flourish and riding out past a tree; and as he whirled his horse he put six shots into the tree trunk, coming by it on the gallop. "Beat that!" he said, "and I'll show you some real shooting. I can put up a six-spot and shoot out every pip with my horse going by on the run." "Don't you worry!" bantered Bill, "I kin shoot straight enough; as you'll find out, if it comes to a showdown. I thought you was going to do something!" He laughed as a Texan told him gruffly to hush up, and then he returned to Elmo. "Put up that danged smoke-house," he called out hectoringly, "you ain't got the guts to use it. Jest meet me halfway and I'll fight you, fist and skull--for the drinks or for nothing at all." He laid off his belt, with the two six-shooters hung loose in it, and stepped out into the open, but Elmo declined to fight. Some of the gunmen urged him on, but he had fought Bill once before and come off second best. "Aw, come away, Bill," jeered Winchester, "can't you see he's afraid to fight ye? Come on, let's go back home." "Well, you're so danged fresh," flared up Isham stepping forward, "you come, and I'll fight you myself." "Nope, don't want no trouble," answered Winchester quietly, "git your horse, Bill--we'll be going home." "You're skeered!" taunted Isham, laying off his belted pistols and rolling up his sleeves defiantly, but Winchester only smiled. "You might gang me," he said, but, as Isham began to whoop, Sharps Bassett suddenly laid off his belt. Shaking the black hair from his eyes he advanced without a word, his neck swelling like a blow-snake's with rage. "I'll fight ye!" he rumbled, and Isham backed away, then turned and made a jump for his guns. "You dirty, black scoundrel!" he yelled in a false fury, "don't you think I seen that knife in your boot? I wouldn't dirty my hands on a nigger like you, nohow--because that's all you are, a damned nigger!"