When Jack was gone, Mr. Masterson again settled to his aim, picking out a spot under the right shoulder of Mr. Allison wherein to plant the bullet. “It’s where I’d plug a buffalo bull,” ruminated Mr. Masterson, “and it ought to do for Clay.” Mr. Allison maintained his verbal flow unchecked. He had elocutionary gifts, had Mr. Allison, and flaunted them. Mingling scorn with reproach, and casting defiance over all, he spake in unmeasured terms of Dodge and its inhabitants. But never once did he lay hand to gun; it was solely an exhibition of rhetoric. Mr. Masterson waxed weary. There were spaces when the mills of Mr. Allison’s vituperation ran low; at such intervals Mr. Masterson would take the buffalo gun from his shoulder. Anon, Mr. Allison’s choler would mount, his threats and maledictions against all things Dodgeian would soar. Thereupon, hope would relight its taper in the eye of Mr. Masterson; he would again cover Mr. Allison with his buffalo gun. Mr. Allison’s energy would again dwindle, and the light of hope again sink low in the Masterson eye. The buffalo gun would be given another recess. First and last, by the later word of Mr. Masterson, Mr. Allison was covered and uncovered twenty times. It was exceedingly fatiguing to Mr. Masterson, who was losing respect for Mr. Allison, as one all talk and no shoot. While Mr. Allison vituperated, his glance roved up and down the street. “What’s the matter with him!” considered Mr. Masterson disgustedly. “Why doesn’t he throw himself loose!” Mr. Masterson’s disgust became amazement when Mr. Allison turned in his saddle, and asked in tones wherein was more of complaint than challenge: “Where’s Bat Masterson? He’s on the squar’! He won’t let no cheap store clerk put it all over me, an’ get away! Where’s Bat?” As though seeking reply, Mr. Allison in a most pacific manner got down from the saddle, and limped away out of range into Mr. Webster’s Alamo. Mr. Masterson pitched the buffalo gun into a corner, put on his more personal artillery, and repaired to the Alamo with the thought of investigating the phenomenon. In the Alamo he found Mr. Allison asking Mr. Webster—who looked a bit pale—to send for Mr. Masterson. “Have somebody round Bat up,” said Mr. Allison, peevishly. “Which I want a talk with him about my injuries.” “What’s wrong, Clay?” asked Mr. Masterson—outwardly careless, inwardly as alert as a bobcat. “What’s gone wrong?” “Is that you, Bat?” demanded Mr. Allison, facing around on his lame foot. “Wherever have you been for the last half hour? I’ve hunted you all over camp.” “Where have I been for a half hour? I’ve been seesawing on you with a Sharp’s for the better part of it.”