As it was a case of life and death, the fugitive braced himself up to meet the shock.

Taking his position in the stern of the boat, he held the paddle in his left hand, while his right firmly grasped his revolver.

It was either "kill or be killed," and Tom was not so sentimental as to choose the latter rather than the former, especially as his intended victim was a secessionist and a rebel.
"Keep off, or you are a dead man," shouted Tom, as he flourished his pistol so that his assailant could obtain a fair view of its calibre, and in the hope that the fellow would be willing to adopt a politician's expedient, and compromise the matter by retiring out of range.
"Tew kin play at that game.

This yere tooth-pick will wipe you out," coolly replied the fellow, as he made a spring at the boat.
"Stand off!" screamed Tom, as he raised the pistol, and fired.
It was a short range, and Tom would have been inexcusable if he had missed his aim.

The rebel struck his chest with his right hand, and the bowie knife dropped from his teeth; but with his left hand he had grasped the gunwale of the boat, and as he sunk down in the shallow water, he pulled the bateau over on one side till the water poured in, and threatened to swamp her.