"Ah, now we shall have a decent fight. Only with the knife it would be much cleaner. If m'sieu even now wishes to change and fight with the knife my man will not object. But of course not at the present distance."
"No, no," snarled Phinny, taking a pistol from Tilton and gripping it nervously.
Tilton stepped off the distance, Papa Clair mincing along at his side to see he did not make it more than fifteen paces.
"Stand here, Phinny," Tilton gruffly called. "Shall I give the word, Clair?"
"My friend, M'sieu Bridger, is better to give the word. No one objects?"
Tilton bit his lips but did not object. Bridger was to be reckoned with in more ways than one. In a physical contest there was no one between the Missouri and the Rockies who could make him hold back from trouble. He was one who never forgot a friend or an injury. His powerful personality, despite his lack of years, already was registering on St. Louis. He typed the ideals of the fur trade that existed before the A. F. C. made its headquarters in St. Louis in 1822.
"I'm willin'. It's only a matter o' countin'," sullenly replied Tilton.
