“Make one move an’ I drop ye!” he called to Woodhull.  “Ye’ve give yer promise.”

“All right then, I’ll keep it,” growled Woodhull.

“Ye’d better!  Now listen!  Do ye see that tall cottingwood tree a half mile down—­the one with the flat umbreller top, like a cypress?  Ye kin?  Well, in half a hour be thar with three o’ yore friends, no more.  I’ll be thar with my man an’ three o’ his, no more, an’ I’ll be one o’ them three.  I allow our meanin’ is to see hit fa’r.  An’ I allow that what has been unfinished business ain’t goin’ to be unfinished come sundown.

“Does this suit ye, Will?”

“It’s our promise.  Officers didn’t usually fight that way, but you said it must be so, and we both agreed.  I agree now.”

“You other folks all stay back,” said Bill Jackson grimly.  “This here is a little matter that us Missourians is goin’ to settle in our own way an’ in our own camp.  Hit ain’t none o’ you-uns’ business.  Hit’s plenty o’ ourn.”

Men started to their feet over all the river front.  The Indians rose, walked down the bank covertly.

“Fight!”

The word passed quickly.  It was a day of personal encounters.  This was an assemblage in large part of fighting men.  But some sense of decency led the partisans to hurry away, out of sight and hearing of the womenfolk.

The bell-top cottonwood stood in a little space which had been a dueling ground for thirty years.  The grass was firm and even for a distance of fifty yards in any direction, and the light at that hour favored neither man.

For Banion, who was prompt, Jackson brought with him two men.  One of them was a planter by name of Dillon, the other none less than stout Caleb Price, one of Wingate’s chosen captains.

“I’ll not see this made a thing of politics,” said he.  “I’m Northern, but I like the way that young man has acted.  He hasn’t had a fair deal from the officers of this train.  He’s going to have a fair deal now.”

“We allow he will,” said Dillon grimly.

He was fully armed, and so were all the seconds.  For Woodhull showed the Kentuckian, Kelsey, young Jed Wingate—­the latter by Woodhull’s own urgent request—­and the other train captain, Hall.  So in its way the personal quarrel of these two hotheads did in a way involve the entire train.

“Strip yore man,” commanded the tall mountaineer.  “We’re ready.  It’s go till one hollers enough; fa’r stand up, heel an’ toe, no buttin’ er gougin’.  Fust man ter break them rules gits shot.  Is that yore understandin’, gentlemen.

“How we get it, yes,” assented Kelsey.

“See you enforce it then, fer we’re a-goin’ to,” concluded Jackson.

He stepped back.  From the opposite sides the two antagonists stepped forward.  There was no ring, there was no timekeeper, no single umpire.  There were no rounds, no duration set.  It was man to man, for cause the most ancient and most bitter of all causes—­sex.