ey's ear, for he had foreseen it and had ducked. But as he
retaliated with a crushing blow, Conniston sprang to the side,
ducking. Now it was Brayley again who rushed, a leaping light of hope
of victory, surety of victory, in his eyes.

But Conniston saw his one chance and took it. He did not give back.
And he did not offer the poor defense of one arm against the flail of
blows. Instead he stooped low, very low, jerking his body double,
dropping suddenly under Brayley's threshing arms, and hurled himself
bodily to meet the attack, his left shoulder thrust forward, striking
Brayley with the full impact of his hundred and eighty pounds just
below the knees. They both went down, down together, and with
Conniston underneath. But to Brayley the thing had come with a
stunning shock of unexpectedness just as he saw the end of the fight,
and Conniston was on his feet a second the first. Again as Brayley
sprang up, Conniston stood over him. Again Conniston's fist, his left,
but driven with all of the power left in him, beat mercilessly into
the already cut face, driving Brayley down upon his knees. Now he was
swaying helplessly, hopelessly. But still the dogged spirit within him
was undefeated. A strange sort of respect, involuntary, of mingled
admiration and pity; surged into Conniston's heart. He was not angry,
he had not been angry from the beginning. This was merely a bit of his
duty, a part of the day's work, the beginning of regeneration, the
keeping of a promise. He was sorry for the man. But he was not
forgetting his promise. Brayley was swaying to his feet, his two big
hands lifted loosely, weakly, before him. Through their inefficient
guard Conniston struck once more, the last blow, swinging from the
shoulder. And Brayley went down heavily, like a falling timber, and
lay still.

For a little Conniston stood over him, watchful, wiping the blood from
the gash in his cheek. He saw that Brayley's eyes were closed, and
felt a quick fear that he had killed him. Then he saw the eyelids
flutter open, close, open again, as the foreman's eyes rested steadily
upon his. He waited. Brayley lifted his head, even struggled to his
elbow, only to fall back prone.

They were not ten feet from the empty corral. Lonesome Pete, his
saddle mended, rode slowly around the corner of the stable toward the
gate. The horse which he was riding was a half-broken three-year-old,
but Lonesome Pete was at home upon the backs of half-broken
three-y