Right under the horses’ noses a big white jack-rabbit suddenly darted across the snow-banked ruts of the well-worn trail, pursuing its leaping erratic course towards a patch of brush on the river side.  Simultaneously the animals shied, with an inward trend, cannoning their respective riders together.  Yorke reined away sharply and glared.

“Get over’” he said curtly, “don’t crowd me!”

He spoke as a Cossack hetman might to his sotnia, and, at his tone and attitude, something snapped within Redmond.  To his already overflowing cup of resentment it was the last straw.  His promise to Slavin he flung to the winds, and it was replaced with vindictive but cool purpose.

“Showdown!” he muttered under his breath, “I knew it had to come!” He was conscious of a feeling of vast relief.  Aloud he responded, blithely and rudely, “Oh! to hell with you!”

Yorke checked his horse with a suddenness that brought the animal back onto its haunches.  Sitting square and motionless in the saddle for a moment he stared at George with an expression almost of shocked amazement; then his face became convulsed with ruthless passion.

The junior constable had pulled up also, and now wheeling “half-left” and lolling lazily in his saddle with shortened leg stared back at his enemy with an expression there was no mistaking.  His debonair young face had altered in an incredible fashion.  Although his lips were pursed up with their whistling nonchalance his eyes had contracted beneath scowling brows into mere pin-points of steel and ice.  He looked about as docile as a young lobo wolf—­cornered.

“Ah!” murmured Yorke, noting the transformation; and he seemed to consider.  He had seen that look on men’s faces before.  Insensibly, passion had vanished from his face; the bully had disappeared; and in his place there sat in saddle a cool, contemptuous gentleman.

“Are you talking back to me?” he said.  He did not look astounded now—­seemed rather to assume it.

Redmond’s scowling brows lifted a fraction.  “Talking back?” he echoed, “sure!  Who the devil do you think you’re trying to come ‘the Tin Man’ over?”

Reluctantly Yorke discounted his first impressions.  Here was no self-conscious bravado.  Warily he surveyed George for a moment—­the cool appraising glance of the ring champion in his corner scanning his challenger—­then, swinging out of the saddle, he dropped his lines and began to unbuckle his spurs.

There was no mistaking his actions.  Redmond followed suit.  A few seconds he looked dubiously at his horse, then back at Yorke.

“Oh, you needn’t be scared of Fox beating it,” remarked that gentleman a trifle wearily, “he’ll stand as good as old Parson if you chuck his lines down.”

Shading his eyes from the sun-glare he took a rapid survey of their surroundings, then led the way to a wind-swept patch of ground, more or less bare of snow.  Arriving thither, as if by mutual consent they flung off caps, side-arms, fur-coats and stable-jackets.  Yorke, a graceful, compactly-built figure of a man, sized up his slightly heavier opponent with an approving eye.