The New Year was approaching. The good wives and daughters, in accordance with usual custom, proposed that it should be celebrated by a ball,—a proposition to which the other sex joyfully acceded. Extensive preparations were made for the supper, and the ball-room was attractively decorated. Cynthia made known to Bob her desire to go. He said in reply, “You shall go, and be respected as a decent woman ought to be.” So he asked Willoughby to “take his woman to the ball, and,” said he, “if things don’t go right, just report to me.” Cynthia assented to the arrangement, and Willoughby promised compliance. The guests had arrived when Cynthia, hanging on the arm of Willoughby, made her appearance. Scowls and sneers met them on every hand. A general commotion took place among the ladies. In little groups of five or six, scattered throughout the room, they whispered to each other their determination to leave if Cynthia were permitted to remain. The managers held a consultation, and Willoughby was told that he must take Cynthia home. No alternative presenting, he obeyed. The gentlemen present were prepared to meet any further disturbance, but none occurred, and the ball passed off pleasantly. The next day Cherokee Bob marshalled his forces to avenge the insult, but was restrained by the evident preparation with which the citizens anticipated his design. He and his companions swaggered around town flourishing their pistols and bowie-knives, boasting of their prowess, but careful of giving personal offence. It would have been well for them had their resentment cooled here, but Bob’s malice was not to be satisfied so easily. Two days had passed, and Cynthia’s humiliation was unavenged. Before the close of another it must be propitiated with blood. Accordingly, the next morning it was agreed between Bob and Willoughby that they would precipitate the battle.