“You d—­n coward!” he bellowed, as his breath came back into his body.  “Sneakin’ coward!”

He bunched his great strength and hurled it against the man, who clung to him.  Still he was at a disadvantage, being under the other and having both arms locked to his side by the clinging embrace which held him powerless.  For a moment the two men lay writhing and twisting upon the ground, half hid in their quiet struggle by the dust which puffed up from the dry ground about them.  Then, as Brayley again gathered his strength in a mighty effort to rid himself of the man who held him down, Conniston loosened his hold, springing back and up to his feet.  And in each hand Conniston held one of Brayley’s guns.  A quick gesture, and as Brayley rose to his feet he saw his two revolvers flying skyward, over the high fence and into the big corral.

“You got ’em!” Brayley cried, hoarse with anger.  “Shoot, you coward—­an’ be d—­d to you!”

For answer Conniston jerked his own gun from his belt, tossing it to lie with Brayley’s two in the dust of the corral.

“We’re ruling guns out of this, Brayley,” he said, quietly.  “It’s going to be just man to man.”

For a moment Brayley stood, open-mouthed, staring at him.  Then, as understanding came to him, a great roar burst from his lips, and with his huge fists clenched he rushed at Conniston.  In the sudden access of rage which blinded the man Conniston might have stepped aside.  But it was no part of his grim purpose to temporize.  As Brayley rushed upon him Conniston, too, sprang forward, and the two men met with a dull, heavy thud of panting bodies.  Brayley’s weight was the greater, his rush fiercer, and Conniston was flung back in spite of his dogged determination not to give up an inch.  He had felt Brayley’s iron fist before, but not with the rage behind it which now drove it into Conniston’s face.  The blow laid open his cheek and hurled him backward, to land upon his feet, his body rocking dizzily, his back jammed against the corral.  And only the corral kept him from falling.

Again Brayley’s great sledge-hammer fists shot out, Brayley’s eyes glowing redly behind them.  Conniston knew that one more blow like the last one, full in the face, and again he would have been beaten by Brayley.  He remembered—­and, strangely enough, the remembrance came to him calmly even while the heart within him beat as though bursting against the walls of his chest and the blood hammered hot in his ears—­what Argyl had said the other day as they rode to Rattlesnake Valley.  She had told him that Brayley had licked him because Brayley had been the better man.  He knew that if Brayley beat him down now it would be because he was the better man.  And he had told Argyl that he was going to lick Brayley.  She had laughed.  None the less, it was a promise to her, his first promise, and he was going to keep it.