There was a time, in the proud days of chivalry, when knights like Sir Launcelot had to ride forth disguised in order to tempt others to fight; but all this was changed when Colonel Colt and his six-shooter reduced men to about the same size. Dave Grimes had ridden in and challenged the Scarboroughs to fight him, to come out and battle for their range; but they had taken a leaf from his own book of warfare and kept under cover like Indians. Not for them the bold charge, the midnight raid on armed camps; they gave him his head until they had him where they wanted him and then shot his Mexicans from ambush. Four men had been struck dead and even then the wary Scarboroughs had kept beyond the range of his guns. They were playing safe, a hundred per cent safe, and Grimes threw up his hands and quit. Of the ten thousand sheep, worth five dollars apiece, that he had driven in to eat out their range he took back a thousand or fifteen hundred at the most, leaving the rest to the mercy of the wolves. He was broken, beaten, but as he looked back across the Basin he shook his grimy fist and swore vengeance. He had left their valley astench with the bodies of sheep, and three herders lay unburied on the plain; but as he retreated up the canyon he sent word to the Scarboroughs that they should pay for their killings, and more. They watched him from the ridges until he was well on his way and then headed back towards the store, riding down the valley at a gallop and shooting off their pistols while they whooped their derision at the Bassetts. There were drinks, and more drinks, and wild rides across the battlefield, while the Bassetts looked on somberly. A great peril had been lifted, the sheep were gone, but now they were at the mercy of this band of drunken Texans who might any time charge down on their house. Or slip up in the night-time, like the skulkers they were, and shoot them down at dawn! Even Bill was quiet and Old Susie muttered as she gazed across the plain at their enemies. The Scarboroughs were so many and they were so few--but Old Henry refused to be alarmed. The day wore on and, as the revelry became wilder, a messenger rode over with his hand up for peace and handed the Bassetts a note. Sharps gazed at it blankly and passed it to Bill, who passed it along to Winchester. "Says here," he read: "'Take yore black squaw and go, you dirty sons----' well, that's enough for me." "Who give you that?" he demanded of the startled "neutral," and the messenger wheeled his horse. "Isham Scarborough!" he replied, and was starting to go when Winchester beckoned him back. "What's your rush?" he asked. "Can't you wait for the answer? Well, you tell Isham Scarborough that I'll shoot him on sight--and that goes for Red and Elmo. And you tell the three Scarboroughs, if they'll ride out halfway, we'll meet 'em on horseback--with six-shooters. Can you keep that from rattling around in your head?"