He had leaped forward with his last word, his two big hands outstretched with clawing fingers.  Before Conniston could spring from his chair to meet the attack the iron hands were upon his shoulders.  He felt himself being lifted bodily from his seat.  His weight was scarcely less than the irate foreman’s, and he employed every pound of it as he staggered to his feet and flung himself against his burly antagonist.  The men about the table sat still, watching, saying no word.

Conniston’s strength was less than the other’s, and he knew it, knew that his endurance would be nothing against the muscles seasoned by daily physical work until they were like steel.  He knew that in two minutes of battling struggle he would be like a kitten in the big, powerful hands.  And he was of no mind to have Brayley manhandle him before such an audience as was now sitting quietly watching, listening to his panting breaths.  In one straining effort he jerked his right shoulder free, swung his clenched fist back, and drove it smashing into Brayley’s face.

Brayley’s head snapped back, and the blood from his cut mouth ran across his white, bared teeth.  Conniston sprang forward to follow up the blow.  But Brayley had caught his balance and was leaping to meet him, snarling.  His hard, toil-blackened fist drove through Conniston’s guard, striking him full upon the jaw.  Conniston reeled, and before he could catch himself a second blow caught him under the ear, and with outflung arms he pitched backward and fell, striking the back of his head upon the rough boards of the floor.

For one dizzy moment the world went black for him.  And then it went red, flaming, flaring red, as he heard a man’s laugh.  An anger the like of which he had never known in the placid days of his easy life was upon him, an anger which made him forget all things under the arch of heaven excepting the one man with bloody fists glaring into his eyes, an anger blind and hot and primitive.  Again he knew that he was on his feet; again he was rushing at the man who stood waiting for him.

“Stan’ back!” roared Brayley.  “I ain’t goin’ to play with you all day.”

Conniston laughed and did not know that he had done so.  He only saw that Brayley had stepped back a pace, and that he had something, black but glistening in the pale light, tight clenched in his hand.  Crying out hoarsely, inarticulately, he threw himself forward.

Again Brayley met him, this time the revolver in his hand thrust before him.  It was almost in Conniston’s face now.  Somebody cried out sharply.  Several of the men jumped from their seats and leaped out from behind Conniston.  Two or three of them slipped under the table to crawl out on the other side.  Then Conniston saw what the something was in Brayley’s hand.

“Shoot, you dirty coward!” he yelled, as he swung his arm out toward the big six-shooter.

For one moment Brayley seemed to hesitate.  And then as the two men came together the barrel of the gun rose and fell swiftly, striking Conniston full upon the forehead.  His arms dropped like lead; the dizzy blackness came back upon him, growing blacker, blacker; and he fell silently, unconsciously.