to his feet. Again was Conniston ready, again
telling himself that he had a promise to keep, and that now or never
was the time to make good his word. He was over the man whom he had
set out to whip, and as Brayley struggled to his feet it was only to
receive Conniston's fist full in the face again, only to be hurled
back to the ground with cut, bleeding lips.

Again bellowing curses which ran into one another like one long,
vicious word, Brayley got to his feet. And again Conniston's fist,
itself cut and bleeding and sore, drove into his face, knocking the
man down before he had more than risen. As the blow landed upon the
heavy bone of the cheek, Conniston's hand went suddenly limp and
useless, his face went sheet-white from the pain of it. Some bone had
broken, he realized dully. He couldn't clench the hand again. The
fingers hung at his side, shot through with sharp pain, feeling as
though they were being slowly crushed between two stones.

Brayley got slowly to his feet, swaying like a drunken man, reeling
when he first stood up, and lurching sideways until his shoulders
struck the high fence of the corral. Conniston put up his left arm,
his right hanging powerless at his side, and followed him. Brayley,
his deep chest jerking visibly as his breath wheezed through his
swelling lips, waited for him, the anger gone once more from his eyes,
which followed Conniston's movements curiously.

For a moment they stood motionless save for the heaving of muscles
with their quick breathing, eying each other, measuring each other.
One thing stood uppermost in Conniston's mind: the foreman, with every
deep breath he drew, was shaking off his dizziness, was regaining his
strength. The spirit within him, with all of the battering he had
received, was still unbroken. And Conniston himself felt his right arm
growing numb to the elbow. In a very few seconds he would be like a
rag doll in the other's big, strong hands....

"Well," panted Brayley, "what are you waitin' for? I'll lick you yet!"

Conniston came on, stepping slowly, cautiously. Brayley stood still,
his clenched fists at his waist, his back against the fence. His eyes
left the other's face for a second and ran to the broken hand swinging
at his side. A quick light of understanding leaped into the big
cattle-man's face, and he laughed softly. And as he laughed he stepped
forward, lifting his fists.

Conniston swung at him with his left hand. The blow whizzed by
Brayl