of logs into a long
thin line and the men of Waddy followed, till the two parties were almost
man to man, facing each other, exchanging jibes and gestures of contempt.

'Moran, ye scut! don't be skirmishin' an' in thriguin' t' get forninat a
shmall man. My meat ye are, an' come on, ye--ye creepin' infor-r-mer, ye!

It was the last insult. Moran led the charge, roaring like a goaded
bullock, the two parties clashed over the logs, and in an instant
comparative silence fell upon the men. The yelling, the derisive voices,
and scoffing laughter ceased, and nothing was heard but the sharp rattle
of the strokes. The fight was fierce, earnest, and bloody; all thoughts
of the absurdity of the cause of contention had long since been
forgotten, and the battle was as remorseless as if it were waged for an
empire.

The women had never expected anything serious to happen, and now they
were dreadfully afraid. A valiant few took arms and joined in the fray by
the sides of their husbands; but the rest, finding after a few minutes
that the fight raged furiously, gave way to bitter tears, and wailed
protests from a safe distance, while the children followed their example
with all the vigour of young lungs.

In time Peterson and Devoy and Rogers found voice and yelled
encouragement to their men, and sticks and fists worked grievous
mischief. The Cow Flat men were at an enormous disadvantage in having to
scale the logs to make headway; whenever a hero did succeed in gaining
the top, Big Peterson, who moved swiftly and tirelessly up and down the
line, was there to cope with him, and he was hurled down, bruised and
broken. The besiegers struggled valiantly, but it dawned on them in the
course of ten minutes that they were waging a vain and foolish fight. A
rally and a rescue of Moran, who was on the point of being captured by
the enemy, gave them an excuse to draw off, dragging their defeated
leader beyond harm's reach. A few moments later, in the midst of excited
cheering and jeering, a number of the men became aware of a small,
bare-headed, red-haired, white-faced boy standing on the logs between the
foes, where he had stood whilst the fight was still waging, whirling his
hat, and crying something at the top of his voice:

'The troopers! The troopers! The troopers!

It was Dick Haddon, very frightened apparently, and ablaze with
excitement.

'Don't fight, don't fight!' he cried. ''Twas me took the goats, an' the
troopers're comin'!