The figure of the man was dimly risible; the women were on their porch, but not visible in the deep shadow of its roof, but we heard the elder woman's voice.

She had loaded an old musket with slugs, and she warned the man that if he stayed where he was while she counted ten it would cost him his life.

She began to count, slowly: he began to laugh.

He stopped laughing at "six"; then through the deep stillness, in a steady voice, followed the rest of the tale: "seven ...
eight ...

nine"-- a long pause, we holding our breath--"ten!" A red spout of flame gushed out into the night, and the man dropped, with his breast riddled to rags.