“Don’t get on the prod,” he advised in his genial drawl.  “The poet he’s got an important engagement right now.”

A kind of scuffle developed.  The proprietor increased it by his hysterical efforts to prevent any trouble.  Men joined themselves to the noisy group of which Clay was the smiling center.  The excitement increased.  Distant corners of the room became the refuge of the women.  Some one struck at the cowpuncher over the heads of those about him.  The mass of closely packed human beings showed a convulsive activity.  It became suddenly the most popular indoor sport at the Sea Siren to slay this barbarian from the desert who had interfered with the amusements of Bohemia.

But Clay took a lot of slaying.  In the rough-and-tumble life of the outdoor West he had learned how to look out for his own hand.  The copper hair of his strong lean head rose above the tangle of the melee like the bromidic Helmet of Navarre.  A reckless light of mirth bubbled in his dare-devil eyes.  The very number of the opponents who interfered with each other trying to get at him was a guarantee of safety.  The blows showered at him lacked steam and were badly timed as to distance.

The pack rolled across the room, tipped over a table, and deluged an artist and his affinity with hot chocolate before they could escape from the avalanche.  Chairs went over like ninepins.  Stands collapsed.  Men grunted and shouted advice.  Girls screamed.  The Sea Siren was being wrecked by a cyclone from the bad lands.

Against the wall the struggling mob brought up with a crash.  The velveteen poet caught at “The Weeping Lady” to save himself from going down.  She descended from her pedestal into his arms and henceforth waltzed with him as a part of the subsequent proceedings.

The writhing mass caromed from the wall and revolved toward the musicians.  A colored gentleman jumped up in alarm and brandished his instrument as a weapon.

“Keep away from this heah niggah!” he warned, and simultaneously he aimed the drum of the mandolin at the red head which was the core of the tangle.  His aim was deflected and the wood crashed down upon the crown of “The Weeping Lady.”  For the rest of the two-step it hung like a large ruff around her neck.

Arms threshed wildly to and fro.  The focal point of their destination was the figure at the center of the disturbance.  Most of the blows found other marks.  Four or five men could have demolished Clay.  Fifteen or twenty found it a tough job because they interfered with each other at every turn.  They were packed too close for hard hitting.  Clay was not fighting but wrestling.  He used his arms to push with rather than to strike blows that counted.

The Arizonan could not afterward remember at exactly what stage of the proceedings the face of Jerry Durand impinged itself on his consciousness.  Once, when the swirl of the crowd flung him close to the door, he caught a glimpse of it, tight-lipped and wolf-eyed, turned to him with relentless malice.  The gang leader was taking no part in the fight.