Among his various duties, it fell to Mr. Gough's lot to cook the meals. On one occasion he had prepared a savoury dish of stew, which he and the cowboy, at the end of a particularly hard day's work, sat down to enjoy. The manners of the establishment were, to say the least, of a rough-and-ready description, and the two hungry diners sat facing each other on the floor, helping themselves from a large iron pot. Mr. Gough, as it happened, was the first to finish his repast, and in the exuberance of a passing fit of hilarity proceeded to execute a _pas seul_, hopping on each leg alternately round the bare apartment. In the course of his antics he came quite close to the seated figure of the cowboy, who had just helped himself to a fresh plate of stew. Then, stumbling, he lost his balance, and fell heavily to the ground, his foot crashing fairly into the middle of his friend's plate. Mr. Gough at once scrambled to his feet and began to apologize in a jocular way for his accident. "Sorry, old chap," he exclaimed; "I hope I haven't spoilt your dinner." But Harry was not at all disposed to take the matter as a joke, and with a dangerous glare in his eyes he half rose to his feet. "You clumsy brute!" he shouted, angrily. "Isn't it hard enough to earn a meal without you spoiling it with your infernal tricks, confound you?" "Oh, all right," replied Gough; "there's plenty more, so you needn't get in a rage about it." The cowboy was now absolutely beyond himself with passion, and with twitching lips and starting eyes he reached for his "gun." For the moment, in fact, he was quite demented and "saw red." Fortunately, however, his revolver was not at his side. If it had been, Mr. Gough is firmly convinced that he would there and then have been shot dead. Deprived of this weapon Harry leapt to his feet. "You don't spoil a man's dinner for nothing, I can tell you," he roared, "and, by Heaven, I'll spoil you, if I swing for it!" With that, carried away by an ungovernable fury of rage, he drew a gleaming bowie-knife from his belt and rushed at Gough, who was much his inferior in strength, and was, moreover, unarmed, thus being apparently entirely at his mercy. To make matters worse, the cowboy was between the young artist and the door, so that escape that way was impossible. He has never yet been found wanting in pluck, however, and, although he felt that his last hour had surely come, he braced himself to meet the attack. A rapid glance in search of a weapon of defence showed that there was nothing within reach. His first impulse was to grapple with his assailant, but the odds were obviously too great, and there was nothing for it but to await the attack. This, mercifully, was not long in coming, for, with the unreasoning fury of a maniac, the cowboy made a dash for him with upraised knife.