“No, let ’em fight it out fa’r an’ squar’,” suggested red-faced Buck Hillhouse, the bar-keeper, in the autocratic tone he used in conducting cock-fights in his back yard.

The blood had left Westerfelt’s face.  Wambush’s eyes gleamed desperately; disarmed, he looked less a man than an infuriated beast.  Westerfelt was waiting for him to make the attack, but, unlike his antagonist, was growing calmer every second.  All at once Wambush sent his right arm towards Westerfelt’s face so quickly that the spectators scarcely saw it leave his side, but it was not quicker than Westerfelt’s left, which skilfully parried the thrust.  Then, before Toot could shield himself, Westerfelt struck him with the force of a battering-ram squarely in the mouth.

Wambush whined in pain, spat blood from gashed lips, and shook his head like a lion wounded in the mouth.  He ran backward a few feet to recover himself, and then, with a mad cry, rushed at Westerfelt and caught him by the throat.  Westerfelt tried to shake him off, but he was unsuccessful.  He attempted to strike him in the face, but Wambush either dodged the thrusts or caught them in his thick hair.  It seemed that Westerfelt’s only chance now was to throw his assailant down, but his strength had left him, Wambush’s claws had sunk into his neck like prongs of steel.  He could not breathe.

“Hit ’im in the bread-basket, John!” cried Luke Bradley.

It was a happy suggestion.  Westerfelt struck Wambush in the stomach.  With a gasp and an oath, Wambush doubled up and released Westerfelt’s throat.  The two men now clinched breast to breast, and, with arms round each other’s bodies, each began to try to throw the other down.  They swung back and forth and from side to side, but they were well mated.

Westerfelt suddenly threw his left leg behind Wambush’s heels and began to force him backward.  In an instant Wambush would have gone down, but seeing his danger he wriggled out of Westerfelt’s grasp, drew something from his coat pocket, and sprang towards him.

“Knife! knife! knife!” cried Luke Bradley in alarm.  “Part ’em!”

“Yes, part ’em!” echoed the bar-keeper with an oath, as if the edge of his pleasure had been taken off by the more serious turn of affairs.  Several men ran towards Wambush, but they were not quick enough.  He had stabbed Westerfelt once in the breast and drawn back his arm for another thrust, when Luke Bradley caught his wrist.  Wambush struck at Bradley with his left hand, but the bar-keeper caught it, and between him and Bradley, Wambush was overpowered.

“The sheriff’s coming!” a voice exclaimed, as a big man rode up quickly and dismounted.

“Hello!” he cried, “I summon you, Buck Hillhouse, and Luke Bradley, in the name o’ the law to ’rest Wambush.  Take that knife from ’im!”

“Arrest the devil!” came from Wambush’s bloody lips.  He made a violent effort to free himself, but the two men held him.