shaven and his straight black hair fell over his forehead as he leaned
forward, alert and vigilant. One could see now the broad expanse of his
back and his wonderful breadth of shoulders. Marston at home was not the
Marston in town. He wore a sort of gray flannel shirt, carelessly
buttoned, shapeless corduroy trousers and rusty shoes. His thick neck
was corded and hairy, and there were dry, red veins in his cheeks caused
by the excessive use of liquor. He came at his opponent carefully, in
spite of his anger, and delivered his first blow so swiftly that
Glenning only partially succeeded in parrying it. The big fist slid off
his arm and caught him on the shoulder, turning him half way around. He
responded at once with a side swing, which Marston avoided. He was
remarkably quick on his feet for so heavy a man. Then they circled,
warily. Suddenly Glenning let drive from the shoulder. It was an
unexpected move, and caught Marston unprepared. A row of hard knuckles
lodged against his chin and sent him reeling. The trunk of a cedar tree
intervened, and he did not fall. His face was awful as he came on again;
enough to unnerve the strongest man. But Glenning had found himself. He
was calm now, and confident, Marston was raging, blind mad. He struck
out wildly, trusting to brute strength. Again Glenning's long arm
straightened, and for a moment the breath left the chest of his
antagonist. He staggered, and dropped his guard, but Glenning did not
follow up. Marston, with an inarticulate cry of rage, sought to close.
He no longer attempted to fight as boxers do, but came with outstretched
hands, feeling blindly for his foe. There was no mercy in the heart of
the iron-faced man fronting him. A third time Glenning struck, and his
fist caught Marston over the eye, crumpling him on the grass like a
thing of reed. He did not move. John knelt and leaned over him. His eyes
were shut, but he was breathing, spasmodically. Glenning arose.

"This is for the pain you caused her, and for the lies you told on me!"
he muttered. He walked to the spot where he had thrown his clothing and
put the various articles on. As he finished this he saw a negro in the
side yard. "Come here!" he called.

The negro obeyed.

"There's your master. He's hurt, but not badly. Carry him in and pour
water on his face and give him some whiskey."

Glenning wheeled, picked up the pearl-handled revolver as he passed, and
went on towards the road.

CHAPTER XI