As Brayley charged for a second blow, Conniston stepped aside swiftly and swung with his right arm, collecting every ounce of his strength and putting it into the blow.  Brayley tried to lift his arm to protect himself, but the fraction of a second too late.  Conniston’s fist landed squarely upon the corner of the foreman’s jaw, just below the ear.  Brayley’s arms flew out, and with a groan driven from between his clenched teeth he went down in a heap.

For a moment he lay unable to rise, the black dizziness showing in his swimming eyes.  A month ago Conniston could not have struck such a blow by many pounds.  Already the range had done much, very much, for him.  But before a man could count five both the pain and astonishment had gone from Brayley’s eyes, giving place to the red anger which surged back.  And with the return of clamoring rage Brayley’s dizziness passed and he sprang to his feet.  Again was Conniston ready, again telling himself that he had a promise to keep, and that now or never was the time to make good his word.  He was over the man whom he had set out to whip, and as Brayley struggled to his feet it was only to receive Conniston’s fist full in the face again, only to be hurled back to the ground with cut, bleeding lips.

Again bellowing curses which ran into one another like one long, vicious word, Brayley got to his feet.  And again Conniston’s fist, itself cut and bleeding and sore, drove into his face, knocking the man down before he had more than risen.  As the blow landed upon the heavy bone of the cheek, Conniston’s hand went suddenly limp and useless, his face went sheet-white from the pain of it.  Some bone had broken, he realized dully.  He couldn’t clench the hand again.  The fingers hung at his side, shot through with sharp pain, feeling as though they were being slowly crushed between two stones.

Brayley got slowly to his feet, swaying like a drunken man, reeling when he first stood up, and lurching sideways until his shoulders struck the high fence of the corral.  Conniston put up his left arm, his right hanging powerless at his side, and followed him.  Brayley, his deep chest jerking visibly as his breath wheezed through his swelling lips, waited for him, the anger gone once more from his eyes, which followed Conniston’s movements curiously.

For a moment they stood motionless save for the heaving of muscles with their quick breathing, eying each other, measuring each other.  One thing stood uppermost in Conniston’s mind:  the foreman, with every deep breath he drew, was shaking off his dizziness, was regaining his strength.  The spirit within him, with all of the battering he had received, was still unbroken.  And Conniston himself felt his right arm growing numb to the elbow.  In a very few seconds he would be like a rag doll in the other’s big, strong hands....

“Well,” panted Brayley, “what are you waitin’ for?  I’ll lick you yet!”

Conniston came on, stepping slowly, cautiously.  Brayley stood still, his clenched fists at his waist, his back against the fence.  His eyes left the other’s face for a second and ran to the broken hand swinging at his side.  A quick light of understanding leaped into the big cattle-man’s face, and he laughed softly.  And as he laughed he stepped forward, lifting his fists.