Charley Gates had fought doggedly.  He had summoned the splendid resources of youth and heritage, and they had responded.  Next in line to his right had been a stranger.  This latter was a slender, clean-cut youth, at first glance seemingly of delicate physique.  Charley had looked upon him with the pitying contempt of strong youth for weak youth.  He considered that the stranger’s hands were soft and effeminate, he disliked his little trimmed moustache, and especially the cool, mocking, appraising glance of his eyes.  But as the day, and the night, and the day following wore away, Charley raised his opinion.  The slender body possessed unexpected reserve, the long, lean hands plied the tools unweariedly, the sensitive face had become drawn and tired, but the spirit behind the mocking eyes had not lost the flash of its defiance.  In the heat of the struggle was opportunity for only the briefest exchanges.  Once, when Charley despairingly shook his empty canteen, the stranger offered him a swallow from his own.  Next time exigency crowded them together, Charley croaked: 

“Reckon we’ll hold her.”

Toward evening of the second day the westerly breeze died, and shortly there breathed a gentle air from the mountains.  The danger was past.

Charley and the stranger took long pulls from their recently replenished canteens.  Then they sank down where they were, and fell instantly asleep.  The projecting root of a buckthorn stuck squarely into Charley’s ribs, but he did not know it; a column of marching ants, led by a non-adaptable commander, climbed up and over the recumbent form of the stranger, but he did not care.

They came to life in the shiver of gray dawn, wearied, stiffened, their eyes swelled, their mouths dry.

“You’re a sweet sight, stranger,” observed Charley.

“Same to you and more of ’em,” rejoined the other.

Charley arose painfully.

“There’s a little water in my canteen yet,” he proffered.  “What might you call yourself?  I don’t seem to know you in these parts.”

“Thanks,” replied the other.  “My name’s Cathcart; I’m from just above.”

He drank, and lowered the canteen to look into the flaming, bloodshot eyes of his companion.

“Are you the low-lived skunk that’s running the Hydraulic Company?” demanded Charley Gates.

The stranger laid down the canteen and scrambled painfully to his feet.

“I am employed by the Company,” he replied, curtly, “but please to understand I don’t permit you to call me names.”

“Permit!” sneered Charley.

“Permit,” repeated Cathcart.

So, not having had enough exercise in the past two days, these young game cocks went at each other.  Charley was much the stronger rough-and-tumble fighter; but Cathcart possessed some boxing skill.  Result was that, in their weakened condition, they speedily fought themselves to a standstill without serious damage to either side.