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 he 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.

He had always had great respect for ricochet shots since his friend Skinny Thompson had proved their worth on the hides of Sioux.

If he could disturb the sand and convey several grains of it to Mr.Travennes' eyes the game would be much simplified.