“Never smile when you fight,” the greatest of all masters of the ring had told him.  “Never show anger, Don’t betray any emotion at all if you can help it.”

Carrigan wondered what the old ring-master would say could he see him now, backing away slowly from St. Pierre as the giant advanced upon him, for he knew his face was betraying to St. Pierre and his people the deadliest of all sins—­anxiety and indecision.  Very closely, yet with eyes that seemed to shift uneasily, he watched the effect of his trick on Boulain.  Twice the huge riverman followed him about the ring of sand, and the steely glitter in his eyes changed to laughter, and the tense faces of the men about them relaxed.  A subdued ripple of merriment rose where there had been silence.  A third time David maneuvered his retreat, and his eyes shot furtively to Concombre Bateese and the men at his back.  They were grinning.  The half-breed’s mouth was wide open, and his grotesque body hung limp and astonished.  This was not a fight!  It was a comedy—­like a rooster following a sparrow around a barnyard!  And then a still funnier thing happened, for David began to trot in a circle around St. Pierre, dodging and feinting, and keeping always at a safe distance.  A howl of laughter came from Bateese and broke in a roar from the men.  St. Pierre stopped in his tracks, a grin on his face, his big arms and shoulders limp and unprepared as Carrigan dodged in close and out again.  And then—­

A howl broke in the middle of the half-breed’s throat.  Where there had been laughter, there came a sudden shutting off of sound, a great gasp, as if made by choking men.  Swifter than anything they had ever seen in human action Carrigan had leaped in.  They saw him strike.  They heard the blow.  They saw St. Pierre’s great head rock back, as if struck from his shoulders by a club, and they saw and heard another blow, and a third—­like so many flashes of lightning—­and St. Pierre went down as if shot.  The man they had laughed at was no longer like a hopping sparrow.  He was waiting, bent a little forward, every muscle in his body ready for action.  They watched for him to leap upon his fallen enemy, kicking and gouging and choking in the riverman way.  But David waited, and St. Pierre staggered to his feet.  His mouth was bleeding and choked with sand, and a great lump was beginning to swell over his eye.  A deadly fire blazed in his face, as he rushed like a mad bull at the insignificant opponent who had tricked and humiliated him.  This time Carrigan did not retreat, but held his ground, and a yell of joy went up from Bateese as the mighty bulk of the giant descended upon his victim.  It was an avalanche of brute-force, crushing in its destructiveness, and Carrigan seemed to reach for it as it came upon him.  Then his head went down, swifter than a diving grebe, and as St. Pierre’s arm swung like an oaken beam over his shoulder, his own shot in straight for the pit of the other’s stomach.  It was a bull’s-eye blow with the force of a pile-driver behind it, and the groan that forced its way out of St. Pierre’s vitals was heard by every ear in the cordon of watchers.  His weight stopped, his arms opened, and through that opening Carrigan’s fist went a second time to the other’s jaw, and a second time the great St. Pierre Boulain sprawled out upon the sand.  And there he lay, and made no effort to rise.