“We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree,”
as Patterson and his party stepped upon the porch. Jefferson Davis was at that time in custody. With the curiosity which exercised the Unionists, a singer said,
“Pink, do you think they will hang Jeff Davis?”
“Yes,” replied Pinkham, “in less than six weeks.”
Hearing a step on the threshold, he turned, and his gaze met the heated eyes of Patterson. Neither spoke, nor, except by vengeful looks, gave any token of recognition. Patterson advanced to the bar. Terry crowded behind him, and slipped a derringer into his pocket. With an oath and opprobrious epithet, Patterson said,
“Don’t mind him. He is not worth the notice of a gentleman.”
Pinkham, looking steadily at Patterson, with his habitual frown deepened, passed out upon the porch. Patterson went through the opposite door to the swimming pond, followed by Terry. After they were out, he handed the derringer back to Terry, and proceeded with his bath. Terry returned to the bar, and going around to the desk, while unobserved by Turner, the landlord, thrust a revolver under his coat, and went back to Patterson. Doubtless he told Patterson that Pinkham and his friends intended to attack him, for Patterson was observed on the moment to be greatly excited. Pinkham’s friend, who knew both Patterson and Terry, told Pinkham that mischief was brewing, and suggested their immediate return to town.
“No,” replied Pinkham, “when he insulted me in the bar-room I was unarmed, but now I am ready for him.”
“But it is better,” suggested his friend, “to avoid a collision. No one doubts your courage.”
“I will not be run off by the rebel hound,” said Pinkham. “If I were to leave it would be reported that I had ‘weakened’ and fled from Patterson;—and you know that I would prefer death in its worst form to that.”
Patterson hurried out of the bath, dressed himself as quickly as possible, and with the revolver strapped to his side, came into the bar-room. Calling for a drink, in a loud tone and with much expletive and appellative emphasis, his blood-drinking eyes glaring in all directions, he demanded to know where Pinkham had gone. Turner, thinking to pacify him, replied in a mild tone,
Pinkham at this moment was standing by a banister on the porch, engaged in conversation with a friend by the name of Dunn. He was unapprised of Patterson’s return to the saloon, and, from the tenor of his conversation, believed he would be warned of his approach. For the impression that each entertained of the other’s intention to fire upon him, and that both were awaiting the opportunity to do so, these men were indebted to the mischievous interference of those friends whose wishes were parent to the thought.