Rimrock Trail

by J. Allan Dunn

  CHAPTER XIV

  A FREE-FOR-ALL

  Plimsoll's place was crowded. There were more onlookers than actualplayers though the tables were fairly well patronized. Many of those whohad seats were only cappers for the game. The majority of the men whohad rushed to the new strike had not brought any great sums of moneywith them, or, if they had, reserved its use for speculation in claimsrather than the slimmer chances of Plimsoll's enterprises. In a fewdays, if the camp produced from grass roots, as was expected and hoped,Plimsoll would gather in his harvest. A garnering in which Sandy hadsadly interfered.

  Plimsoll had set up a working partnership with a man who had broughtmoonshine and bootlegged whisky to the camp, occupying the next shack tothe gambling place. For convenience of service extra doors had been cutand a rough-boarded passageway erected between the two places. The feverof gambling provided thirsty customers for the liquor dealer, and thewhisky blunted the wits of the gamblers and gave the dealers more thantheir customary percentage of odds in the favor of the house. It was acombination that worked both ways. Waiters impressed into service fromcamp followers, crudely took orders and delivered them. There were nomixed drinks, no scale of prices. And there was no question of license.The will of the majority ruled. The gold-seeking reduced things toprimitive methods, men to primitive manners.

  Plimsoll himself presided over the stud-poker table, dealing the game.He showed nothing of the nervousness that crawled beneath his skin. Heawaited the result of his play with Wyatt and the latter's companions.If he could make Sandy, Mormon and Sam ridiculous, he would achieve hisend, but he hoped for bigger results. Wyatt and his fellow rider hadbeen detailed to ride down the tent that had been reported occupied bythe Three Star owners. That part of the plan had been suggested by Wyattout of the sheer deviltry of his invention. Plimsoll had enlisted othersof his following, none too fearless, to loiter in the brush and, in thegeneral confusion, fire to cripple and to kill.

  Plimsoll had learned of the visit of the men who had come with BillBrandon to investigate Plimsoll's methods of running the Waterline HorseRanch. He had learned, through the leakage that always occurs in acattle community, that Brandon claimed to be an old acquaintance ofSandy and his partners. So he had told his men who had come with him tothe camp from the Waterline Ranch that the Three Star outfit was adanger to all of them, undoubtedly acting as spies for Brandon, andthat they should be eliminated for the general good. But there was noneof them, from Plimsoll down, who had any fancy to stand up against theguns of Sandy, or of Mormon and Sam, when the breaks were anywherenearly even.

  So Plimsoll dealt stud and collected the percentage of the house,watching his planted players profit by their professionalism and by thelittle signs bestowed upon them by Plimsoll that tipped them off as tothe value of the hidden cards. Plimsoll, with his ejection fromHereford, the advent of woman suffrage, the coming of Brandon and otherirate horse owners, had begun to realize that his days were gettingshort in the land. He looked to the camp for a final coup. If he heldthe Casey claims and sold them, as he expected to do, to an easterncapitalist to whom he had telegraphed some days before, he mightreestablish himself. Sandy's prompt arrival and subsequent events hadcrimped that plan and he fell back upon all the crooked tactics that hepossessed in gambling. And now, if Wyatt....

  He was dealing the last card around when Wyatt came in and his eyes litup. Then his face stiffened, the light changed to a gleam ofmalevolence. Following Wyatt were the three partners, taking open orderas they came through the entrance, about which the space was clear,Sandy in the middle, Mormon on the right flank and Sam on the left. Thetwo last smiled and nodded to one or two acquaintances. Sandy's face wasset in serious cast. The players at Plimsoll's table turned to see whatcaused the suspension of the game, others followed their example. TheThree Star men were known personally to some of those in the room. Thestory of what had happened during the day had buzzed in everybody'sears, from Roaring Russell's discomfiture to Plimsoll's failure to holdthe claims and the eviction notice served on him by Sandy.

  The phrase "you'll see me through smoke," held a grim significance thattouched the fancy of these gold gatherers, men of the cruder types forthe most part. The issue between Sandy and Plimsoll was the paramounttopic, they wanted to see the two men face to face and size them up.There was no especial sympathy with one or the other. There were othergamblers to provide them with excitement. Mormon's challenge of Russellwas a sporting event that appealed to them more directly and there weremany possessed of a rough chivalry that appreciated the heavyweightcowman's taking up the cudgels on behalf of a woman. But that was sport,this was a business matter, a duel, with Death offering services asreferee.

  Chairs edged back, the standing moved for a better view-point, the roomfocussed on Plimsoll, Wyatt and the three cow-chums. Then Wyatt steppedaside. There was a malicious little grin on his face. Mormon'ssuggestion as to his private grudge against Plimsoll was not withoutfoundation. Wyatt had been glad to find excuse for severing relationswith the gambler. He had done his best and failed, but his failure wasnot bitter.

  The partners walked between the tables toward Plimsoll who sat regardingthem balefully, his teeth just showing between his parted lips, cards inmidair, action in a paralysis that was caused by the concentrationforced by Sandy's even gaze, by the same sickening conviction that hismanhood shriveled in front of Sandy and that Sandy knew it. Oathsagainst Wyatt rose automatically in his brain like bubbles in a mineralspring, together with the consciousness that Wyatt, if not alliedagainst him, was no longer for him, that his chosen tools lacked edge.The placing of bets ceased, there was no sound of clicking chips, theroulette dealer held the wheel, expectant, dealer and case-keeper at thefaro bank halted their manipulations, the presiding genius of the crapslayout picked up the dice. Tragedy hovered, the shadow of its wing wason the dirt floor of the rude Temple of Chance.

  "The chaps you sent up to move yore tent an' truck didn't make a goodjob of it, Plimsoll," drawled Sandy. "I reckon they warn't the rightso't of help. Ef you-all are aimin' to take that stuff erlong with youI'd recommend you 'tend to it yorese'f. It's gettin' erlong to'ardssun-up, fast as a clock can tick."

  Silence held. Sandy stood non-committal, at ease. His conversation withPlimsoll might have been of the friendliest nature gauged by hisattitude. His hands were on his hips. Back of him, slightly turningtoward the crowd, were Mormon and Sam, smilingly surveying the room. Butnot one there but knew that, faster than the ticking of a clock, gunsmight gleam and spurt fire and lead in case of trouble. It was allbeing done ethically enough. They did not know exactly what the entranceof Wyatt meant, but Sandy's talk gave them a hint and his poise wascorrect, without swagger, without intent to start general ruction. Itwas up to Plimsoll.

  "I'll attend to my own business in my own way," said the gambler,knowing the room weighed every word. It was a non-committal statementand a light one, but it passed the situation for the moment. His eyesshifted to Wyatt, shining with hate, the whites blood-flecked bysuppressed passion.

  Sandy pulled out a gunmetal watch.

  "I make it half afteh one. 'Bout three hours to sunrise, Plimsoll. I'llbe round later." He turned his back on the gambler and sauntered towardthe door. Before the general restraint broke Mormon put up his hand.

  "I figger Roarin' Russell ain't in the room," he said. "Ef he happenserlong, some of you might tell him I was lookin' fo' him. An' I'm goin'to keep on lookin'," he added.

  There was a laugh that swelled into a roar of approval in the generalreaction.

  "Good for you!" A dozen phrases of commendation chimed and jangled. Afew followed the three out into the street, among them, Wyatt.

  "I got a hunch it ain't extry healthy fo' me in there," he said. "Agamblin' parlor where I ain't welcome to stay or play makes no hit withme. I'll help you-all find Russell."

  The search was not an easy one. Russell had been seen freely in themakeshift saloons and other places on both sides of the street. Itseemed, from what they
could glean and put together, that he had stoppeddrinking when he had arrived at a certain point in his boasting and hadannounced his intention of sobering up before he "took the bloody,hog-bellied cow-puncher apart, providin' the latter showed." This suitedMormon, who wanted fairly to whip a live opponent, not fight astaggering drunkard. But they could not find him. They had severalvolunteer assistants who proved useless. Sam began to yawn.

  "I ain't sleepy, I'm hungry," he said. "Let's go get us a steak oveh toSimpson's. If he's gone to bed we'll rout him out. Won't be the firsttime he turned out to cook me a meal. A shot of that Rocky Mountaingrapejuice w'udn't go so bad. Mormon, a feed 'ud round you out. Roarin'Russell has crawled in somewheres an' died of heart failure. Come on,hombres."

  Simpson was awake and dressed and on the job. His place was almost aswell filled as it had been the first time they entered it. In the firstseethe of the gold excitement no one seemed to get sleepy, whileappetites developed. Word had preceded them that Mormon Peters waslooking for Roaring Russell and their entrance caused more than a rippleof interest. Simpson came bustling forward to serve them.

  "Good thick rare steak's what you want, ain't it? Fine fightin' food.Me, I'm takin' in a few bets on you, Mormon. 'Member the time you got ahammerlock on that long-horned gent from Texas with the Lazy Z outfit?I cleaned up on you that time an' this'll be a repeater. This sameRoarin' Russell has been tellin' the camp what a rip-snortin',limb-loosenin', strong-armed galoot he is, an' some of 'em haveswallered it. They ain't seen you in action, Mormon, an' I have. You'lljest natcherly chaw him inter hash. I'm bettin' there won't be enough ofhim left to stuff a Chili pepper after you git through."

  "I ain't as limber as I was, Alf," said Mormon deprecatingly. "Make mysteak thick, will you? Have you seen anything of the Roarin' gent?"

  "Not personal. He don't eat here. There was a friend of yores in a whileago who seemed to be sort of keepin' tabs on him. That young assayerRussell started to bulldoze when Sandy took a hand. Said he'd be inag'in later. 'Peared to think you was bound to show before mornin'."

  Simpson went to the back of his shack and started the steaks. A waiterbrought over drinks of the Rocky Mountain grapejuice with theinformation that they were "on the house."

  "It ain't the hooch we're sellin'," he said. "This is private stock,hundred proof." He eyed Mormon professionally as he hung about thetable, setting out the battered cutlery and tin plates that Simpsonprovided. "They was offerin' two to one on Roarin' Russell a littlewhile ago," he volunteered. "I think I'll take up a piece of theirmoney."

  "This ain't a prize-fight, it's a privut quarrel," said Mormon as hesmelled the fiery stuff in the glass, sipped it and then swallowed it inone gulp. "That's prime stuff."

  "You'll have one hell of a time keepin' it privut, mister," said thewaiter. "They tell me there's nigh to six hundred folks in the camp an'there won't be many more'n six missin' when you two meet up. You want towatch out for Russell's pals, though; they ain't the gentlest bunch inthe herd. But I reckon you can handle 'em," he said, turning to Sandy."I saw you handlin' your hardware this mornin' an' you sure can juggle agun."

  A call from another of the makeshift tables claimed his attention.Simpson came hurrying with the meat, biscuits and coffee. He sat downwith them, offering more drinks which they refused.

  "Slack right now," he said, "but I sure have done a whale of a businessto-day. If this keeps up I don't want no claims. They're tellin' me yougive Plimsoll till sun-up to git out of camp, Sandy. I don't figgerthere'll be any argyment. He's yeller as the yolk of a rotten aig. Hellw'udn't take him in, he ain't fit to be fried. Gittin' rid of him an'his crowd'll sure purify the air in this camp. Times ain't like theyused to be. This ain't the frontier any more and a few bad men can't runa strike to suit themselves. If the camp's no good it'll peter out likeit did afore; if it amounts to anything, we'll have a police station onone end of this street, a fire station at t'other an' streetcars runnin'down the middle, inside of a month. Plimsoll's gettin' a bum name inthis county. The wimmin are ag'in' him. An' I tell you, gents, wehombres 'll have to watch our steps or they'll be takin' our vote awayfrom us next thing you know. It's a lucky thing for us that men is inthe majority in this section. Here's yore friend now."

  Westlake came through the door, looked round, saw them and came over.

  "Russell is down at the Chinaman's eating shack by the bridge," heannounced. "He's been drinking black coffee to sober up on. He's gotsome of his own sort with him. I think they're nearly ready to comeup-street. He knows you are in camp and looking for him."

  "Then we'd better be shackin' erlong," said Mormon, mopping up gravywith half a biscuit. "I w'udn't want to keep him waitin'."

  Outside, it was apparent that the whole camp was waiting for theappearance of the two principals in an event that was not to be allowedto be dealt with purely as a personal encounter. The waiter's estimatewas a fair one. The moon had risen, sailing round and fair and mild ofbeam from behind the eastern hills, making pallid by comparison theartificial flares. The one street was packed with men, not all of whomwere sober. The crowd thickened every moment from outlets of thegambling shacks and saloons. All other business and pleasure wasforgotten with the swift word passing to say that the cowman who hadslapped the bully in the face and challenged him that morning to acatch-as-catch-can, free-for-all contest, was now in Alf Simpson's ChuckHouse while his opponent, in the cold range of enforced, semi-sobriety,was in Su Sing's Hashery, the pair about to emerge.

  This was to be better than any gunplay, a gladiatorial combat to delightthe hearts of frontiersmen. And they warmed to it. All day there hadbeen rumors busy of the clash, of the matters involved. Garbled versionsof the truth ran excitement up to hot-blood heat. The town had stayed upfor developments. Bets had been made on Plimsoll's backing down atsunrise; on the cowman, Mormon; on the bully, Russell.

  The affair with Plimsoll at sun-up was likely to be short and sharp. Menwho knew the three from the Three Star Ranch spread their opinions. Theprime event was the scrap. Russell was, or had been, a professionalwrestler and held fame as a rough-and-tumble fighter. Mormon had oncebeaten all comers for the Cow Belt. The spectators swarmed like bees andbuzzed as busily. They came in from the claims, warned by their friends.They greeted Mormon with a shout and one bulk of them surged down towardthe bridge over Flivver Creek, escorting the three partners andWestlake, Simpson and his help with them. More were milling up-streetfrom Su Sing's place, Russell in their midst. Where the two factionsmet, the principals kept apart by the crowd, a broad-shouldered giantwith the voice of a bull and a beard that crimped low on his chest,harangued the multitude from a wagon-box. They halted to listen, like acrowd at a fair.

  "Gents all," bellowed the big man. "There's been some tall talkin' doneto-day between two hombres who have agreed to see which is the best man,in man fashion, usin' the strength an' skill that God gave 'em, withoutrecourse to gun, knife or slungshot. Roarin' Russell, champeen wrastler,allows he can lick any man in camp. Mormon Peters, champeen holder ofthe Cow Belt, 'lows he can't. That's the cause an' reason of the combat.Any other reason that has been mentioned is private between the twoprincipals an' none of our damned business."

  The crowd roared in approval of the speaker's style and the force of hisbreezy delivery. He had touched their chivalry in thus delicatelyalluding to the episode of the insult and apology to the only woman incamp.

  "Therefore," he went on, and the word slipped round that he was LemPardee, wealthy rancher and ex-representative of the state, "such anaffair appealin' to every red-blooded male among us, it behooves us tosee it brought off in due form, fair an' square to both parties, in abare-fisted settlement--an' may the best man win."

  More howls went up, dying as he held up his hand.

  "There's level ground below the bridge with free seats an' standin' roomfor all on both sides. The moon graces the occasion an' provides theproper illumination. I move you that a referee be appointed to discussfightin' rules with Roarin' Russell an' Morm
on Peters, to settle allside bets, with power to app'int a committee to keep the side lines an'take up a suitable purse for the winner. Referee will give the decision,if necessary, an' settle all disputes."

  Shouts that drowned all others nominated Pardee as chief official. Heaccepted the choice with a wave of his hand and, glancing about him,rapidly picked five men as his committee. Two of them he did not know byname but selected from his judgment of men, and his choices met withgeneral approval.

  "The principals will choose their own seconds," he said. "Not more thanthree to each man, to act only in that capacity and in no way tointerfere. That's all."

  In two factions the crowd moved down the slant of the street, turnedaside at the bridge and, as Pardee indicated the level space on the nighside of the creek that trickled down the gulch like quicksilver in themoonlight, ranged themselves about the natural arena while the committeeestablished the side lines and the referee conferred with Mormon,Russell and their seconds in the open. Sandy and Sam appointedthemselves corner men for Mormon, and Sandy asked Westlake to make thethird. A roulette dealer from Plimsoll's and a bartender rangedthemselves alongside Russell, together with Plimsoll himself. Pardeeeyed the group.

  "There's bad blood between you two," he said to Plimsoll and Sandy. "Iunderstand you've got your own grudges. You'd better keep clear of this.And I'm tellin' you both this," he added. "This camp is in therough-and-ready stage, but there's enough of us who've got together tosee it's goin' to be run decent an' regular. We're goin' to establishfair play and order, from now on. We don't expect to run no man'saffairs so long's they don't interfere with the general welfare of thecamp, but, if there's any dirty work pulled off, the man that spills thedirt is goin' to be interviewed pronto. Things are goin' to be runclean. We ain't goin' to give this camp a bad name at the start."

  "Suits me," said Sandy. "My blood's runnin' cool enough, Pardee."

  "I'm not talkin' personal, 'cept so far as this bout is concerned. Youtwo had better stay out of it."

  Sandy stepped back and Plimsoll, after a few whispered words to Russell,followed suit.

  "You men want another second apiece?" asked Pardee. "Or are two enough?"

  "The Roarin' gent," said Mormon, "made his brags an' I took it up. Me, Idon't know nothin' about Queensbury rules an', though the camp seems tohave arranged this affair to suit itself, I didn't bargain for no boxin'match, nor no wrastlin' match either. It's either he can lick me, man toman, or I lick him. An' a lickin' don't mean puttin' down shoulders on amat. If a man goes down, t'other lets him git up, if he can. Barkickin', bitin', gougin' an' dirty work, an' to hell with yore secondsan' yore rounds. This ain't no exhibition. It's a fight!"

  He spoke loudly enough for most of the crowd to hear, and they cheeredhim till the hills echoed.

  "That suit you, Russell?" asked Pardee sharply.

  Russell, stripping to the waist, belting himself, stood forward.

  "Suits me," he said. "Suit me better to cut out all this talk an' getthis over with. It won't take long."

  He was a formidable-looking adversary. In the moonlight certain signs ofpuffiness, of dissipation, did not show, save for rolls of fat aboutshoulders and paunch. He was powerfully built, his chest matted withblack hair, his forearms rough with it. Taller than Mormon, he had allthe advantage of reach. He sneered openly at his opponent.

  "One thing more," said Mormon. "We ain't fightin' fo' a purse. Roarin'knows what we're fightin' fo'. A private matter. But we'll put up astake, if he's agreeable. Loser leaves the camp."

  "When he's able to walk. You slapped my face this morning. This evensit."

  Russell lashed out suddenly, his hand open, striking with the heel ofhis palm for Mormon's jaw. Mormon sprang back, warding off, but it wasPardee who struck aside Russell's blow and sent him reeling back with apowerful shove.

  "Strip down," he said to Mormon. "Both of you keep back of your linestill I give the word. Sabe?" He scored two lines in the dirt with thetoe of his shoe and waved them behind the marks.

  "No rounds to this affairs," he called to the crowd. "Fair fightin',foul holds and punches barred. Everything else goes. Man down allowedten seconds. That's my ruling," he added to the two men.

  Mormon looked clumsy as a bear as he waited for the word. He was farstouter than Russell. His bald pate, with its reddish fringe of hair,looked grotesque under the moon. The bulge of his stomach seemed astrong handicap in agility and wind. Yet his flesh was hard and, wherethe tan ended on neck and forearms, it held a glisten that caused theknowing ones to nod approvingly. There was strength in his back, bigmuscles shifted on his shoulders and his arms were bigger thanRussell's, if shorter, corded with pack of sinew and muscle. As he toedhis line, swaying from side to side, arms apart, the left a littleforward, he moved with a lightness strange to his usual tread. Russellcrouched a little, his long arms hanging low, knees bent. The two lineswere about six feet apart.

  They faced each other in a silence of held breath on all sides. Pardeestood to one side, equally between them. His arm went up.

  "Ready?" he asked. "Let her go!"

  A great sigh went up as the two fighters leaped forward. Both seemedabout to clinch, to test their prowess as wrestlers. Murmurs went upfrom back of Mormon where his fanciers had ranged themselves. "Russell'sgot too many tricks for him," men told each other and then gasped.

  Mormon had landed, light as a dancing master, despite his bulk, hadstooped, turned in a flash with his right hand clamped about the rightwrist of Russell, bowing his back, heaving with all his might.

  Russell, shifting at the last second from a clutch, seeing Mormoncharging, swung a vicious uppercut. He made the mistake ofunderestimating Mormon, thinking him slow-witted. He found his wrist ina vise, his arm twisted, bent down across the thick ridge of thecowman's shoulder, the powerful heave of Mormon's back. His own impetusserved against him. Mormon shifted grips, he cupped Russell's elbow withhis right palm and crowded all his energy into one dynamic effort ofpull and hoist. Russell went over his head in a Flying Mare as the crowdstood up and yelled.

  Surprised off his feet, Russell's experience served him in good stead asthey left the ground. Mormon's trick had scored, but it was an old oneand had its counter-move. As he landed, legs flexed, he twisted, grabbedMormon's arm with his free one and jerked him forward, hunching ashoulder under the cowman's stomach. The pair of them rolled together onthe ground, struggling and clubbing, while the spectators shoutedthemselves hoarse and smote each other great blows. Pardee, steppingwarily, watched the writhing pair.

  Russell, wiser at this game, contrived leverage, twisting Mormon, andpinned his arms in a scissors grip while he battered at his face andMormon writhed to get away from the reach of those long arms. The softdust clouded about them and their grunts came out from it as theystruggled. Once, with Mormon striving to open the leg grip, jerking awayfrom the flailing blows, they rolled perilously near a clump of pricklypear on the verge of their little arena and a universal cry of warningwent up.

  The two heard nothing of it in their hammer and tongs affair, thesuperheated blood, stoked by passion, surging through their veins.

  Mormon felt the pressure of Russell's thigh-muscles closingrelentlessly, clamping down on his chest, shutting off oxygen. Hisenergy waned, his limbs grew heavy, nerveless, his brain clogged anddulled. He set his chin well down into his neck to save his jaw, but hisright cheek was pounded, one eye closing. It was only a matter ofmoments before he must relax and then Russell would pin him down withone arm and send in the final smashing blow. He felt himselfsuffocating, sinking--the noise of roaring waters dinned in his ears.

  He lay on his back, Russell on his side, one leg below, one leg aboveMormon's body, bending at the hips in his efforts to reach the cowman'sjaw. He bent a fraction too much, the scissors grip shiftedimperceptibly and the message of that weakening of the chain flashed toMormon's hazy brain. With every muscle taut in one supreme convulsion hemanaged to twist sidewise, back to Russell, opening the grip that nowc
ompressed shoulders instead of chest and back. He got a breath of air,dust-laden but blessed. His chest expanded, strength flowed in, heforced his arms apart, rolling over on Russell, crushing him into thesoft earth with his weight. Another wriggling twist and he faced hisman, bringing his mighty back into play to break clear. He got a forearmacross Russell's Adam's apple, regardless of the blows that smashed intohis face. He hammered home one jolt hard to the jaw and, as Russell'sbody grew limp, dragged himself from the relaxing hold and crouched onhands and knees, wheezing, spent, gulping air to his flattened lowerlungs that refused to function.

  Now he could hear the shouting of the crowd, a clatter of yells. He sawRussell's head move, his eyes opening in the moonlight. MechanicallyMormon stood up, swaying, bruised, one eye useless. Pardee begancounting over Russell, according to the ruling he had made.

  Russell rolled over on his face. It looked as if he was not going to tryto get up. This was not how Mormon had wanted the fight to end, in atechnical knockout, with his man beginning to come back and he notallowed to finish him.

  Pardee had put in the clause, "Man down allowed ten seconds, with theother on his feet," merely to make a better, longer fight of it from thespectator's standpoint. It was supposed to be the sporting thing to do,but Mormon, blood-flushed, brain-dull, had no thought of ethics at thatmoment. Russell was lifting himself to knees and elbows, crouching asMormon had done, watching his opponent, listening to the count. He wasgoing to get up. He _was_ up at nine, stooping, groggy, his long armshanging low, and a shout went up from his backers as Pardee steppedaside.

  Russell began to back away, to describe a half-circle, right forearmacross his chest, left arm extended, both in slight motion. Mormon stoodlike a baited bear, slowly revolving to face Russell, wary of a feint todraw him out. There were smears of blood on Russell's arms, on his face,dark in the moonlight. Mormon's whiter skin showed greater defacement.There was a mouse swelling above his eye, the lids were clamping.

  The ring of spectators was almost silent now, leaning forward, watching.Little jerky sentences passed between them.

  "Russell's goin' to box." "He can beat the cowman at that game." "Cuthim to ribbons. Blind him first."

  The man in the crowd was right. Mormon knew little of boxing, but heknew enough to throw a cushion of sturdy arm across his jaw, the leftelbow crooked, nose buried in it, eyes--one eye--indomitable above it.And the blunted elbow like a ram, as he ducked and Russell's straightright slid over his bald pate. He was far faster, lighter on his feetthan Russell dreamed. The bully still underestimated his man, but woketo vivid and just appraisal as Mormon's elbow smashed against hiscollar-bone, left forearm clubbing his nose, starting spurts of blood,right fist coming up like a piston in short-armed, jolting upper-cuts.

  Desperately Russell clutched, failed; held, clung, half tumbling into aclinch. Mormon's arms were about him, underneath, binding him with hoopsof steel, compressing. He lost his footing, began to rise and heback-heeled in an outside click. They both went down together side byside in a dog-fall. Mormon loosed his arms as he rolled atop, gotastride of Russell, strove to gather and control the arms that thrashedand smote.

  Something jagged crushed against Mormon's temple. It seemed as if theskull split open and a jagged, red-hot probe searched through his brain.He threw up his head in agony, his chin exposed, but instinct stillawake to fling out both hands, catch the oncoming blow, his fingersclamping deep about the wrist above the hand that held the rock--someore fragment tossed away by an old-timer--that Russell had found in thedirt, and used in unfair, murderous intent.

  The maddening pain of first impact died to a throb as the blood poureddown, seeming to leave his brain clear, cold with a rage that respondedto a deep disgust of the bully who was now at his mercy. For, with therage came absolute conviction that this was the end of the fight.

  He screwed unmercifully, flesh and sinews and the small bones of thewrist, until Russell shrieked through his swollen mouth at the anguishof it and dropped the rock. Pardee, hovering near, seeing all, pickedit up and slipped it into his pocket as Mormon pinned down Russell's armwith his left knee and swung left and right in sledge-hammer blows tothe jaw of the face that tried in vain to dodge the knockout. As if agalvanic current that had simulated life had suddenly been shut off,Roaring Russell's body lost all energy, it seemed to flatten, laywithout a quiver.

  Mormon got on his feet and stood to one side while Pardee counted offthe seconds that were only a grim parody. Russell's brain wasshort-circuited. There was not even a tremor of his eyelids. Pardeeknelt, felt pulse and heart. Then he beckoned to the loser's seconds.

  "Come and get your man," he told them. "He's through for this evening."

  Pandemonium broke loose as the crowd broke formation and surged down.Four men packed off Roaring Russell, limp and sagging between them.Pardee exhibited the chunk of ore, stained with Mormon's blood, whileSandy, Sam and Westlake ramparted Mormon from enthusiastic admirers andpushed down to the creek where he washed his hurts with the stinging icywater and stiffly put on his clothes.

  "Knew he was licked and figured he might get away with it," declaredPardee. "Lucky it didn't split his head open." Murmurs gathered forceagainst the bully's methods.

  "Cut out the lynching talk, boys," cried Pardee. "The man's been beatenup. I wouldn't wonder if his jaw was bu'sted. His nose is. Let him go;we'll see that he leaves the camp as soon as he can hobble." He brokethrough to Mormon, being assisted into his coat by Sandy. "How are youstanding up, old bearcat?" asked the referee. "I thought he had younipped once but you walloped him."

  "Me? I'm jest about standin' up, an' that's all," said Mormon, gingerlyfeeling certain places on his face. "I sure thought it was my brainsoozin' when he swiped me with that rock. But my bone's pritty solid inthe head, I reckon. I don't mind tellin' you-all I'm feelin' a good deallike a bass drum at the end of a long parade, but I believe it's all onthe outside. And I ain't entered for any beauty show--at present."

  "Eleven minutes of straight fighting by the watch," said a man.

  Mormon looked at him humorously, and one-eyed.

  "Seemed mo' like 'leven hours to me." He caught sight of Simpson,holding out a flask. "Now that's what I call a friend," he started, hishand outstretched. Then it dropped and a blank look came over his face.

  "Let's git out of this," he murmured to Sandy. "Dern me if I didn'tplumb forgit about any chance of her showin' up."

  "Here's where you git called a hero," said Sam. "She knows what you'vebeen fightin' erbout. More'n that she's been in the crowd for the lastfive minnits of the scrap. That right, Westlake?"

  "Yes. I saw her come into the crowd with young Ed. She wants to thankyou, Mormon. No use dodging it."

  Young Ed was maneuverin' through to their side.

  "Aunt wants to see you," he announced with a grin. "We heard the rowdown here, an' she sent me to see what it was. When I didn't hurry backshe trailed me. Great snakes, Mormon, but you sure whaled him!"

  "Huh!" Mormon said nothing but that mystic monosyllable until theyreached the place where Miranda Bailey stood apart from the crowd whodeferentially gave her room, whispering her supposed share in the recentevent. She did not look much like the heroine of a romance, neither didMormon resemble a hero. Her somewhat worn but wholesome face was set inforbidding lines, but Westlake and Sandy fancied they saw the ghost of atwinkle in her eyes. She greeted Mormon as if he had been a disgracedschoolboy.

  "What have you been fightin' about?" she demanded.

  But, like Russell, she underestimated Mormon. His one working eye wasinnocent of all guile as he looked at her.

  "Fightin' fo'? Jest fo' the fun of it, marm."

  She surveyed him grimly and then her features softened.

  "I reckon yo're too tough to get hurt much," she said. "I can fix upthat eye. I sh'ud think a man of yore age 'ud have more sense thanfightin' at all in front of a crowd of hoodlums who ought to be asleep,'stead of disturbin' the whole camp, let alone for sech a ridicklusre
ason."

  "I didn't think the reason ridicklus," said Mormon, and the spinster'slips twitched.

  "What he wants is a lancin' an' a chunk of raw beef," put in Simpson,with a sympathetic wink at Mormon that suggested more pungent remediesin the background. "Come up to my place."

  There may have been some thought of trade from the many who would wantto see the victor at close range. Mormon hesitated, all slowly movingtoward the bridge. Men were staring toward the mesa whence came ahigh-powered car, rushing at high speed, magnificently driven, takingcurve and pitch and level with superb judgment. Its lights flamed out onthe night. It turned and came on, stopping on the bridge, blocked by thecrowd that made slow opening for it. The driver, in chauffeur's livery,sat immobile, controlling the car, his worldly-wise, blase face like amask. Two men were in the tonneau. One of them leaned forward, lookingat the crowd, a square-jawed man, clean-shaven but for the bristle of asilver mustache beneath an aggressive nose, above a firm hard mouth anddetermined chin. The mintage of the East was stamped upon his features.He was a man accustomed to sway, if not to lead. His companion was asplainly as eastern product, but his manner was subordinate though hisface that, alone of the three, seemed to hold a measure of fearfulwonder at the turbulent throng of men, was shrewd enough.

  "I'm looking for a man named Plimsoll," said the first of these two, hisvoice an indication that he was accustomed to a quick answer. "He wiredme about some claims. Where'll I find him?" He made no questionconcerning the crowd, his eyes passed casually over Mormon's damagedcountenance, over the procession that bore Russell, sack-fashion. Herewas a man who, at any hour of the twenty-four, was primed for businessand for profit.

  Yet he could not fail but see that his question charged the crowd withsome emotion he could not fathom. The night was spent, it was gettingclose to dawn. The issue between Sandy Bourke and Plimsoll, crowdedaside for the moment, was now paramount. Some craned for sight of thetwo-gun man, others glanced toward the eastern sky. The stars seemed tobe losing their brilliance, the golden moon turning silver, the highhorizon, jagged with mountain crests, appeared to be gaining form and athird dimension.

  "You'll likely find him at his place," answered a miner. "Up-street onthe left. Name's outside."

  They let the car go on in a lane that was pressed out of their ranks.They fell in behind or alongside of it as it passed slowly up thestreet. One or two of the bolder got on the running boards unchecked.The easterner who was looking for Plimsoll took in the situation assomething beyond his present range, accepting it. Sandy turned toMormon.

  "You better see Miss Mirandy up to her claim," he said, his voice casualenough. Mormon started an appeal but it died unvoiced. The spinster knewnothing of the clash impending between Sandy and the gambler, neitherdid her nephew, who, the excitement of the fight over, yawned and wentoff with his aunt and Mormon.

  "I'll bring you up that chunk of meat, Mormon," whispered Sam. "An' I'llbring you somethin' stronger, same time."

  "Don't bring it all on yore breath," Mormon whispered back. "If I hearany shootin' I'll come back lopin'."

  "There won't be any shootin'," said Sam. "You go soak that eye of yoresin Mirandy Bailey's sage tea. Me 'n' Sandy, we'll handle Plimsoll." ThenSam broke clear from Mormon and hurried after Sandy and Westlake.

  Sandy walked up the street without hurry and, as they had made way fromthe car, men gave him space. The nearer he got to Plimsoll's place themore room they allowed him. They melted away from the car on all sides,leaving it clearest between the machine and the entrance to the gamblingshack. The chauffeur preserved his bored look and carved attitude. Hisface was lined with lack of sleep and the strain of driving at highspeed over unknown mountain roads, powdered gray with dust. He seemedalmost an automaton. The man with the square face looked alertly abouthim at the crowd, giving place to the lean tall man walking leisurely upthe street, high lights touching the metal of the two guns that hung inholsters well to the front of his hips. Sandy's face was serene, butthere was no mistaking the fact that the star performer of the momenthad come upon the stage. Five paces back of him strolled Sam, his eyesdancing with the excitement that did not show in Sandy's steel-grayorbs. Westlake followed to one side, by the advice of Sam.

  The stranger saw that Sandy walked lightly, on the balls of his feet,with a springy tread. He appraised his face, frown-lines appearedbetween his eyebrows and he half rose in his seat. Then the door of thecabin opened and the man who had volunteered to find Plimsoll emerged.

  "He's comin' right along," he announced.

  It was Plimsoll's way--the professional gambler's way--to play his cardsuntil he knew himself beaten. He had been hoping for the arrival of thisman. He represented capital, the development of the camp into a miningtown, the movement of money, the boom of quick sales. With hisbacking--once the camp understood what it meant to all of them--he mightturn the tables on Sandy Bourke. The protection of Capital was powerful.

  He came out licking his lips nervously, with a swift survey that took inthe setting of the stage prepared for his entrance. His eyes, shiftingfrom the big machine, as if drawn by something beyond his will, focusedon the figure of Sandy, easy but sinister in its capacity to avoid allmelodrama. Half-way between door and car he halted.

  "Plimsoll?" said the stranger. "I am Keith."

  The light was perceptibly changing. Faces of men came out of theshadows, pale but visible. The lights of the machine changed from yellowto pale lemon, the flares outside the cabins, the illumination of thewindows altered. High up, a tiny fleck of cloud caught the fire of theas yet unseen sun, rolling on to dawn behind the range. Things seemedflat, lacking full definition, lacking shadow. In the east the skyshowed gray behind the dark purple crests between which mists weretrailing. Men shivered, half from cold, half from tension and lack ofsleep.

  "Plimsoll," said Sandy. "That peak oveh on Sawtooth Range is goin' tocatch the light first. I'll call it sun-up when the sun looks oveh themesa."

  Plimsoll bared his teeth in a fox-grin. Sandy stood with his hands byhis sides, covering him with his eyes. Plimsoll looked at the hands thathe knew could move swifter than he could follow, he looked at the carwith Keith gazing from him to Sandy, he sensed the waiting strain of allthe men, waiting to see Sandy shoot--if he did not go, to see himcrumple up in the dust, and--he looked at the peak on Sawtooth and hisface grayed as the granite suddenly flushed with rose. His will melted,he turned and went inside his cabin. No one followed him, there was noone inside to greet him. His heart was filled with helpless rage,centered against Sandy Bourke. He knew the camp was against him,considering him outbluffed or outmatched. His horse, ready saddled, hadbeen at the door since midnight. He mounted, dug spurs into the beast'sflanks and went galloping madly up the slope that rose from the streetgulch leading down to the main gulch of Flivver Creek. He wasshortcutting for the mesa road, hate in his heart, his blood, his brain;poisoning hate that turned all his secretions to gall. His plans forwealth had been blocked by a man he dared not face. Before Sandy Bourkehis spirit flinched as a leaf shrinks and curls from flame. The forcedacknowledgment of it was an acid aggravation. He raked his horse'sflanks with his rowels and the spirited brute, pick of all Plimsoll'shorse herd, tore up the hillside to suit the mad humor of his master,who was permeated with the venom of a man who knows his deeds at onceevil and futile, a venom that was bound to spread until the infectionmastered him, body and mind and soul, steeped them in a devil's brewthat permitted of no other thought but what was dominated by the maddesire to get even.

  Some one caught sight of the galloping horse and rider lunging along ina cloud of dust that showed golden as the sun rose and looked over themesa. He raised a shout that was joined in by the rest, that reached theflying Plimsoll as the view-halloo reaches the fox making for itsearth.