A crowd of men and women came pouring from the farmhouse door. With staring eyes Jack watched, counting them as they came. Two men, five women, as many children, then--then--last of all came Alagwa. Jack shouted aloud--a great shout that startled the sleepy birds. He had found her. His hour had come. CHAPTER XXV AT JACK’S shout Brito looked up. Then he, too, cried out and settled himself back in the saddle. Slowly the two rode toward each other, pistols in hand. Between them lay the hard-trampled level of the cattle yard. The sun had dropped behind the trees; the moon had not yet gathered power; no confusing shadows offered advantage to either. Suddenly Brito flung up his pistol and fired. Jack felt his hat torn from his head and saw it go sailing to the ground. He threw up his own pistol. Then he hesitated; Alagwa and the women and children were directly behind his foe. He dared not fire. As he hesitated Brito flung down his useless pistol and spurred at him, saber flashing as he came. Jack reined back; his horse reared, striking with its hoofs, and Brito’s black shied to the left and rushed by, Brito’s blade singing harmlessly in the air as he passed. The two men wheeled. They had changed places; Jack’s back was toward the farmhouse. Again he raised his pistol. His finger curled about the trigger. Brito paused and his face whitened. Then he cried out, jeering. “Shoot, you cur!” he shrieked. “Shoot, you d--d American! Shoot an unarmed man if you dare. No Englishman would take such an advantage. This isn’t war; it’s a private quarrel. If you’re not all cur, if there’s any Telfair blood in your veins, throw down that pistol and fight on equal terms like a man.” Jack hesitated. Brito had had his shot and had missed. He was talking merely to save his life; his taunts merited no consideration. Jack knew well that he ought to shoot him down or take him prisoner. He knew that the men at the farmhouse were against him. Nevertheless, Brito’s words bit. He turned in his saddle. Alagwa was leaping to his side and to her he handed the pistol. “Keep those others back,” he ordered swiftly. Then he turned to face his foe. It was high time. Brito was coming straight for him. Barely he had time to spur his horse aside and avoid the shock. As he leaped he heard Brito shouting to the Canadians to shoot. Jack wheeled. The two Canadians had gone back into the farmhouse. Now they were rushing out, muskets in hand. Then Alagwa’s pistol settled on the foremost and he heard their guns crash to the ground. Jack saw red. For the first time in his life the rage to kill seized him--a fierce, strong longing that shook him from head to foot, a survival from the fierce, bitter primeval days when foes were personal and hate was undiluted. He snatched at his blade and drew it from the scabbard. “You d--d cur!” he rasped. “You coward! By God! You’ll pay now.” Wild as he was, he was also cold as ice; in some men the two go together.