The latter had come to look for a smith, and hearing Wilkinson’s voice as he went up the steps, waited for a moment or two.  He was too late, in one sense, because the harm had been done, but he could not steal away.  Although the course he meant to take was not very logical, judgment would be given against him if he did nothing.  His sunburned face was rather white and he stood very stiff, with muscles braced, looking down at Wilkinson.

“Get up, you slanderous brute, and tell them it’s a lie,” he said.

“I’ll be shot if I will!” said Wilkinson, who got on his feet reluctantly.  “You know it’s true.”

Then he flung up his arm, a second too late, for Festing struck him a smashing blow and he staggered, with the blood running down his face.

He recovered in a moment, and seizing a billiard cue brought the thick end down on Festing’s head.  Festing swayed, half-dazed, but grasped the cue, and they struggled for its possession, until it broke in the middle, and Wilkinson flung his end in the other’s face.  After this, for a minute or two, the fight was close and confused, and both made the most of any advantage that offered.

In Western Canada, personal combat is not hampered by rules.  The main thing is to disable one’s antagonist as quickly as possible, and Festing knew that Wilkinson would not be scrupulous.  He must not be beaten, particularly since his defeat would, to some extent, confirm the slander.

He grappled with Wilkinson as a precaution, because another cue stood near, and with a tense effort threw him against the empty stove.  The shock was heavy enough to bring the stove-pipe down, and a cloud of soot fell upon the struggling men, while the pipe rolled noisily across the floor.  Wilkinson, however, stuck to him, and they reeled up and down between the wall and table, getting an arm loose now and then to strike a blow, and scattering the chairs.  Nobody interfered or cleared the ground, and by and by Wilkinson caught his foot and fell down, bringing Festing with him.  After this, they fought upon the floor, rolling over among the chairs, until their grip got slack.  Both got up, breathing hard, and Festing gasped: 

“Tell them you’re a liar.  It’s the last chance you’ll get!”

Wilkinson did not answer, but struck him before he could guard, and the fight went on again amidst a cloud of dust that rose from the dirty boards.  Then it ended suddenly, for Festing got his left arm free as he forced his antagonist towards the open door.  He struck with savage fury, and Wilkinson, reeling backwards across the narrow veranda, plunged down the stairs and fell into the street.  He did not get up, and Festing leaned against the wall and wiped his bleeding face.

“Pick up the hog and take him to the hotel,” he said, and tried to fill his pipe with shaking hands while the rest went out.