"It's his own gun," grumbled Mr. Cassidy as a bullet passed through
his sombrero, having in mind the fact that his opponent had a whole
belt full of .44'S. If it had been Mr. Cassidy's gun that had been
handed over he would have enjoyed the joke on Mr. Travennes, who would
have had five cartridges between himself and the promised eternity, as
be would have been unable to use the .44'S in Mr. Cassidy's .45, while
the latter would have gladly consented to the change, having as he did
an extra .45. Never before had Mr. Cassidy looked with reproach upon
his .45 caliber Colt's, and he sighed as he used it to notify Mr.
Travennes that arbitration was not to be considered, which that person
indorsed, said indorsement passing so close to Mr. Cassidy's ear that
he felt the breeze made by it.
"He's been practicin' since I plugged him up in Santa Fe," thought
Mr. Cassidy, as he retired around the hut to formulate a plan of
campaign.
Mr. Travennes sang "Hi-le, hi-lo," and other selections, principally
others, and wondered how Mr. Cassidy could hoist him out. The slack of
his belt informed him that he was in the middle of a fast, and
suggested starvation as the derrick that his honorable and disgusted
adversary might employ.
Mr. Cassidy, while figuring out his method of procedure, absent-
mindedly jabbed a finger in his eye, and the ensuing tears floated an
idea to him.
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