The Autobiography of Mark Twain by Mark Twain (good book recommendations .TXT) 📕

enterprises of this kind you are in the hands of your friends; there is nothing for you to do but to abide by what they consider to be the best course. Daggett wrote a challenge for me, for Daggett had the language⁠—the right language⁠—the convincing language⁠—and I lacked it. Daggett poured out a stream of unsavory epithets upon Mr. Laird, charged with a vigor and venom of a strength calculated to persuade him; and Steve Gillis, my second, carried the challenge and came back to wait for the return. It didn’t come. The boys were exasperated, but I kept my temper. Steve carried another challenge, hotter than the other, and we waited again. Nothing came of it, I began to feel quite comfortable. I began to take an interest in the challenges myself. I had not felt any before; but it seemed to me that I was accumulating a great and valuable reputation at no expense, and my delight in this grew and grew as challenge after challenge was declined, until by midnight I was beginning to think that there was nothing in the world so much to be desired as a chance to fight a duel. So I hurried Daggett up; made him keep on sending challenge after challenge. Oh, well, I overdid it. I might have suspected that that would happen⁠—Laird was a man you couldn’t depend on.

The boys were jubilant beyond expression. They helped me make my will, which was another discomfort⁠—and I already had enough. Then they took me home. I didn’t sleep any⁠—didn’t want to sleep. I had plenty of things to think about, and less than four hours to do it in⁠—because five o’clock was the hour appointed for the tragedy, and I should have to use up one hour⁠—beginning at four⁠—in practicing with the revolver and finding out which end of it to level at the adversary. At four we went down into a little gorge, about a mile from town, and borrowed a barn door for a mark⁠—borrowed it of a man who was over in California on a visit⁠—and we set the barn door up and stood a fence rail up against the middle of it. The rail was no proper representative of Mr. Laird, for he was longer than a rail and thinner. Nothing would ever fetch him but a line shot, and then, as like as not, he would split the bullet⁠—the worst material for dueling purposes that could be imagined. I began on the rail. I couldn’t hit the rail; I couldn’t hit the barn door. There was nobody in danger except stragglers around on the flanks of that mark. I was thoroughly discouraged, and I didn’t cheer up any when we presently heard pistol shots over in the next little ravine. I knew what that was⁠—that was Laird’s gang out practicing him. They would hear my shots, and of course they would come up over the ridge to see what kind of a record I was making⁠—see what their chances were against me. Well, I hadn’t any record; and I knew that if Laird came over that ridge and looked at my barn door without a scratch on it, he would be as anxious to fight as I was⁠—or as I had been at midnight, before that disastrous acceptance came.

Now just at this moment a little bird, no bigger than a sparrow, flew along by and lit on a sage-bush about thirty yards away. Steve whipped out his revolver and shot its head off. Oh, he was a marksman⁠—much better than I was. We ran down there to pick up the bird, and just then, sure enough, Mr. Laird and his people came over the ridge, and they joined us. And when Laird’s second saw that bird with its head shot off, he lost color, and you could see that he was interested.

He said:

“Who did that?”

Before I could answer, Steve spoke up and said quite calmly, and in a matter-of-fact way, “Clemens did it.”

The second said, “Why, that is wonderful! How far off was that bird?”

Steve said, “Oh, not far⁠—about thirty yards.”

The second said, “Well, that is astonishing shooting. How often can he do that?”

Steve said, languidly, “Oh, about four times out of five!”

I knew the little rascal was lying, but I didn’t say anything. The second said:

“Why, that is wonderful shooting! Why, I supposed he couldn’t hit a church!”

He was supposing very sagaciously, but I didn’t say anything. Well, they said good morning. The second took Mr. Laird home, a little tottery on his legs, and Laird sent back a note in his own hand declining to fight a duel with me on any terms whatever.

Well, my life was saved⁠—saved by that accident.

I don’t know what the bird thought about that interposition of Providence, but I felt very, very comfortable over it⁠—satisfied and content. Now we found out, later, that Laird had hit his mark four times out of six, right along. If the duel had come off, he would have so filled my skin with bullet holes that it wouldn’t have held my principles.

By breakfast time the news was all over town that I had sent a challenge and Steve Gillis had carried it. Now that would entitle us to two years apiece in the penitentiary, according to the brand-new law. Governor North sent us no message as coming from himself, but a message came from a close friend of his. He said it would be a good idea for us to leave the territory by the first stagecoach. This would sail next morning at four o’clock⁠—and in the meantime we would be searched for, but not with avidity; and if we were in the territory after that stagecoach left, we would be the first victims of the new law. Judge North was anxious to have some victims for that law, and he would absolutely keep us in the prison the full two years. He wouldn’t pardon us out to please anybody.

Well, it seemed to me that our society