Gives a dance, does he, high-falutin' hoe-down in his barn and forgets to invite his old broncho-bustin' friend.But his friend don't forget him; no, he don't.He remembers little things, does his broncho-bustin' friend.Likes to see a dance hisself on occasion, his friend does.Comes anyhow, trustin' his welcome will be hearty; just to see old Buck Annixter dance, just to show Buck Annixter's friends how Buck can dance--dance all by hisself, a little hen-on-a-hot-plate dance when his broncho-bustin' friend asks him so polite.A little dance for the ladies, Buck.This feature of the entertainment is alone worth the price of admission.Tune up, Buck.Attention now! I'll give you the key."He "fanned" his revolver, spinning it about his index finger by the trigger-guard with incredible swiftness, the twirling weapon a mere blur of blue steel in his hand.Suddenly and without any apparent cessation of the movement, he fired, and a little splinter of wood flipped into the air at Annixter's feet.
"Time!" he shouted, while the buckskin reared to the report.
"Hold on--wait a minute.This place is too light to suit.That big light yonder is in my eyes.Look out, I'm going to throw lead."A second shot put out the lamp over the musicians' stand.The assembled guests shrieked, a frantic, shrinking quiver ran through the crowd like the huddling of frightened rabbits in their pen.
Annixter hardly moved.He stood some thirty paces from the buster, his hands still in his coat pockets, his eyes glistening, watchful.
Excitable and turbulent in trifling matters, when actual bodily danger threatened he was of an abnormal quiet.
"I'm watching you," cried the other."Don't make any mistake about that.Keep your hands in your COAT pockets, if you'd like to live a little longer, understand? And don't let me see you make a move toward your hip or your friends will be asked to identify you at the morgue to-morrow morning.When I'm bad, I'm called the Undertaker's Friend, so I am, and I'm that bad to-night that I'm scared of myself.They'll have to revise the census returns before I'm done with this place.Come on, now, I'm getting tired waiting.I come to see a dance.""Hand over that horse, Delaney," said Annixter, without raising his voice, "and clear out."The other affected to be overwhelmed with infinite astonishment, his eyes staring.He peered down from the saddle.
"Wh-a-a-t!" he exclaimed; "wh-a-a-t did you say? Why, I guess you must be looking for trouble; that's what I guess.""There's where you're wrong, m'son," muttered Annixter, partly to Delaney, partly to himself."If I was looking for trouble there wouldn't be any guess-work about it."With the words he began firing.Delaney had hardly entered the barn before Annixter's plan had been formed.Long since his revolver was in the pocket of his coat, and he fired now through the coat itself, without withdrawing his hands.
Until that moment Annixter had not been sure of himself.There was no doubt that for the first few moments of the affair he would have welcomed with joy any reasonable excuse for getting out of the situation.But the sound of his own revolver gave him confidence.He whipped it from his pocket and fired again.
Abruptly the duel began, report following report, spurts of pale blue smoke jetting like the darts of short spears between the two men, expanding to a haze and drifting overhead in wavering strata.It was quite probable that no thought of killing each other suggested itself to either Annixter or Delaney.Both fired without aiming very deliberately.To empty their revolvers and avoid being hit was the desire common to both.They no longer vituperated each other.The revolvers spoke for them.
Long after, Annixter could recall this moment.For years he could with but little effort reconstruct the scene--the densely packed crowd flattened against the sides of the barn, the festoons of lanterns, the mingled smell of evergreens, new wood, sachets, and powder smoke; the vague clamour of distress and terror that rose from the throng of guests, the squealing of the buckskin, the uneven explosions of the revolvers, the reverberation of trampling hoofs, a brief glimpse of Harran Derrick's excited face at the door of the harness room, and in the open space in the centre of the floor, himself and Delaney, manoeuvring swiftly in a cloud of smoke.
Annixter's revolver contained but six cartridges.Already it seemed to him as if he had fired twenty times.Without doubt the next shot was his last.Then what?He peered through the blue haze that with every discharge thickened between him and the buster.For his own safety he must "place" at least one shot.
Delaney's chest and shoulders rose suddenly above the smoke close upon him as the distraught buckskin reared again.Annixter, for the first time during the fight, took definite aim, but before he could draw the trigger there was a great shout and he was aware of the buckskin, the bridle trailing, the saddle empty, plunging headlong across the floor, crashing into the line of chairs.
Delaney was scrambling off the floor.There was blood on the buster's wrist and he no longer carried his revolver.Suddenly he turned and ran.The crowd parted right and left before him as he made toward the doorway.He disappeared.
