me. He shouted jeers,
advice, threats, encouragement. If he had had ten thousand dollars
wagered on the outcome he could not have been more excited.

Swiftwater Pete, drawn by the cries of Sheba, came running from the
stable. As he passed the window, Holt caught him by the arm.

"What are you aimin' to do, Pete? Let 'em alone. Let 'em go to it.
They got to have it out. Stop 'em now and they'll get at it with guns."

Sheba ran up, wringing her hands. "Stop them, please. They're killing
each other."

"Nothing of the kind, girl. You let 'em alone, Pete. The kid's
there every minute, ain't he? Gee, that's a good one, boy.
Seven--eleven--ninety-two. 'Attaboy!"

Macdonald had slipped on the snow and gone down to his hands and knees.
Swift as a wildcat the younger man was on top of him. Hampered though he
was by his parka, the Scotchman struggled slowly to his feet again. He
was much the heavier man, and in spite of his years the stronger. The
muscles stood out in knots on his shoulders and across his back, whereas
on the body of his more slender opponent they flowed and rippled in
rounded symmetry. Active as a heather cat, Elliot was far the quicker
of the two.

Half-blinded by the hammering he had received, Gordon changed his method
of fighting. He broke away from the clinch and sidestepped the bull-like
rush of his foe, covering up as well as he could from the onset.
Macdonald pressed the attack and was beaten back by hard, straight lefts
and rights to the unprotected face.

The mine-owner shook the matted hair from his swollen eyes and rushed
again. He caught an uppercut flush on the end of the chin. It did not
even stop him. The weight of his body was in the blow he lashed up from
his side.

The knees of Elliot doubled up under him like the blade of a jackknife.
He sank down slowly, turned, got to his hands and knees, and tried to
shake off the tons of weight that seemed to be holding him down.

Macdonald seized him about the waist and flung him to the ground. Upon
the inert body the victor dropped, his knees clinching the torso of the
unconscious man.

"Now, Pete. Go to him," urged Holt wildly.

But before Swiftwater could move, before the great fist of Macdonald
could smash down upon the bleeding face upturned to his, a sharp blow
struck the flesh of the raised forearm and for the moment stunned the
muscles. The Scotch-Canadian lifted a countenance drunk with rage,
passion-tossed.

Slowly the light of re