The rude table was arranged as if for breakfast; the pan of yellow biscuit still sat upon that hearth whose dead embers might have typified the evil passions that had raged there but an hour before.  But Colonel Starbottle’s eye—­albeit somewhat bloodshot and rheumy—­was more intent on practical details.  On examination, a bullet-hole was found in the doorpost, and another, nearly opposite, in the casing of the window.  The Colonel called attention to the fact that the one “agreed with” the bore of Scott’s revolver, and the other with that of York’s derringer.  “They must hev stood about yer,” said the Colonel, taking position; “not mor’n three feet apart, and—­missed!” There was a fine touch of pathos in the falling inflection of the Colonel’s voice, which was not without effect.  A delicate perception of wasted opportunity thrilled his auditors.

But the Bar was destined to experience a greater disappointment.  The two antagonists had not met since the quarrel, and it was vaguely rumored that, on the occasion of a second meeting, each had determined to kill the other “on sight.”  There was, consequently, some excitement—­and, it is to be feared, no little gratification—­when, at ten o’clock, York stepped from the Magnolia Saloon into the one long straggling street of the camp, at the same moment that Scott left the blacksmith’s shop at the forks of the road.  It was evident, at a glance, that a meeting could only be avoided by the actual retreat of one or the other.

In an instant the doors and windows of the adjacent saloons were filled with faces.  Heads unaccountably appeared above the river-banks and from behind bowlders.  An empty wagon at the cross-road was suddenly crowded with people, who seemed to have sprung from the earth.  There was much running and confusion on the hillside.  On the mountain-road, Mr. Jack Hamlin had reined up his horse, and was standing upright on the seat of his buggy.  And the two objects of this absorbing attention approached each other.

“York’s got the sun,” “Scott’ll line him on that tree,” “He’s waitin’ to draw his fire,” came from the cart; and then it was silent.  But above this human breathlessness the river rushed and sang, and the wind rustled the tree-tops with an indifference that seemed obtrusive.  Colonel Starbottle felt it, and in a moment of sublime preoccupation, without looking around, waved his cane behind him, warningly to all nature, and said, “Shu!”

The men were now within a few feet of each other.  A hen ran across the road before one of them.  A feathery seed-vessel, wafted from a wayside tree, fell at the feet of the other.  And, unheeding this irony of nature, the two opponents came nearer, erect and rigid, looked in each other’s eyes, and—­passed!