without raising his guard. "And now your ear, Moncrossen;
I won't knock it off, but it will never be pretty again."

Another long swing landed with a glancing twist that split the ear in
half. "That is for the Creed item--and this one is for the river."

The boss's head snapped backward to the impact of a smashing blow;
again he staggered, and, turning, spat a mouthful of blood which seeped
into the ground, leaving upon the surface several brownish, misshapen
nuggets.

"God!" breathed a man, and turned away. "It's his teeth!"

The yelling had ceased and men stared white faced. This was not the
fighting they were used to; they understood only the quick, frenzied
fighting of fury, where men pummel each other in blind rage, fighting
close--as tigers fight--gouging and biting one another as they roll
upon the ground locked in each other's grip.

The men gazed in awe, with a strange, unspoken terror creeping into
their hearts, upon the vicious battering blows, the coldly gleaming
eyes and smiling lips of the man who fought, not in any fume of
passion, but deliberately, smoothly, placing his terrific blows at will
with a cold, deadly accuracy that smashed and tore.

Moncrossen rushed again.

"And now for the other things," Bill continued; "the attacks upon the
defenseless girl--the attempted murder from ambush--and the starving of
an old woman."

Blow followed blow, until in the crowd men cried out sharply, and those
who had watched a hundred fights turned away white lipped.

Moncrossen fought blindly now. His eyes were closed and his face one
solid mass of blood. And still the blows fell. Smash! Smash! Smash! It
was horrible--those deliberate, tearing blows, and the lips that smiled
in cold, savage cruelty.

No blow landed on the point of the jaw, on the neck, on the heart, or
the pit of the stomach--blows that bring the quiet of oblivion; but
each landed with a cutting twist that ground into the flesh.

At last, with his face beaten to a crimson pulp, Moncrossen sagged to
his knees, tried to rise, and crashed limp and lifeless to the ground.
And over him stood Bill Carmody, smiling down at the broken and
battered wreck of the bad man of the logs.

Gradually the circle that surrounded the fighters broke into little
groups of white-faced, silent men who shot nervous, inquiring glances
into each other's faces and swore softly under their breath--the
foolish, meaningless oaths of excitement.

Minutes passed as