ntrance.

"He wants to have an open trail to run," jeered Rand. And again
striking heavily his blow found the empty air and a second resounding
slap reddened his other cheek.

"For calling me a breed," taunted Garcia, so that all might hear the
words with the slap of the open hand. "Me who have the blood of kings,
blue like the skies."

The man standing at the door . . . it chanced to be young Frank
Marquette . . . obeyed Garcia's command silently and promptly. Rand,
his rage flaring ever higher as men drawing chairs and tables out of
the way laughed at him and as the Mexican's sallies taunted him, hurled
himself forward purposing to get his enemy in a corner of the room.
But at the best the trapper was awkward and Ramon Garcia's little feet
in his little boots carried him much as the fabled winged sandals bore
the hero Perseus in his encounter with the dragon. Not once had Rand
landed a square blow; not once had Garcia been where the big red fists
looked for him. And while Rand breathed heavily, Ramon Garcia, whose
soul was as deeply steeped in the dramatic as Pere Marquette's in
colour, sang maddening little snatches of love songs and stole swift
glances now and then at Ernestine Dumont.

From the beginning it was clear that Garcia was playing with the other.
But the end, coming swiftly, was not what men had looked for. A great
gasp went up at it, followed by a shout of applause and a roar of
laughter. Garcia had tantalised his antagonist, but beyond slapping
his face twice had not touched him. He skipped about him like a French
dancing master and so allowed Rand to make a fool of himself for the
moment. Presently, so had the Mexican engineered it, they were not
five steps from the open door and the way was clear. One instant he
had seemed about to draw back again, to avoid Rand as he had avoided
him so many times.

"You little monkey-man!" Rand was shouting at him. "Stand still
and . . ."

That was all that he said. Garcia had leaped forward; his two gloved
hands had sped like lightning to Rand's wrists, he had seized the
bigger man and had pushed him backward, had suddenly whirled him about,
with a bunching of strength which men had not guessed was in him he had
thrown Rand out through the open door, and as the trapper plunged
forward into the muddy road the Mexican lifted his foot and kicked.

"For calling me dago!" smiled Garcia. "Me, whose blood is of Castile."
He stripped off his gloves and