CHAPTER XIV—THE FACE OF A FIGHTER

Slouching in his chair, in an attitude of complete dejection, Neil

Norton was glumly digesting the dregs of defeat.

The _Eagle_ office adjoined the courthouse. Both were one-story frame

structures, flimsy, with one thin wall between them; and to Norton’s

ears as he sat with his unpleasant thoughts, came the sound of voices,

muffled, but resonant. Someone was speaking with force and insistence.

Norton attuned his ears to the voice. It was then he discovered there

was only one voice, and that Taylor’s.

He sat erect, both hands gripping the arms of his chair. Then he got

up, walked to the front door of the _Eagle_ office, and looked out. He

was just in time to see Carrington tumble out through the door of the

courthouse and land heavily on the sidewalk in front of the building.

Immediately afterward he saw Taylor follow.

Norton exclaimed his astonishment, and he saw Taylor turn toward him,

a broad, mirthless grin on his face.

“Good Heavens!” breathed Norton, “he’s started a ruckus!”

Taylor had not moved. He was looking at Norton when a man leaped from

the door of the courthouse, straight at him. It was Danforth, his face

hideous with rage.

Taylor sensed the movement, wheeled, stumbled, and lost his balance

just as Danforth crashed against him. The two men went down in a heap

into the deep dust of the street, rolling over and over.

Danforth’s impetus had given him the initial advantage, and he was

making the most of it. His fists were working into Taylor’s face as

they rolled in the dust, his arms swinging like flails. Taylor, caught

almost unprepared, could not get into a position to defend himself. He

shielded his face somewhat by holding his chin close to his chest and

hunching his shoulders up; but Danforth landed some blows.

There came an instant, however, when Taylor’s surprise over the

assault changed to resentment over the punishment he was receiving. He

had struck Carrington in self-defense, and he had not expected the

attack by Danforth.

Norton, also surprised, saw that his friend was at a disadvantage, and

he was running forward to help him when he saw Taylor roll on top of

Danforth.

To Norton’s astonishment, Taylor did not seem to be in a vicious

humor, despite the blows Danforth had landed on him. Taylor came out

of the smother with a grin on his face, wide and exultant, and

distinctly visible to Norton in spite of the streaks of dust that

covered it. Taylor shook his head, his hair erupting a heavy cloud.

Then he got up, permitting Danforth to do likewise.

Regaining his feet, Danforth threw himself headlong toward Taylor,

cursing, his face working with malignant rage. When Taylor hit him the

dust flew from Danforth’s clothes as it rolls from a dirty carpet

flayed with a beater. Danforth halted, his knees sagged, his head

wabbled. But Taylor gave him a slight respite, and he came on again.

This time Taylor met him with a smother of sharp, deadening uppercuts

that threw the man backward, his mouth open, his eyes closed. He fell,

sagging backward, his knees unjointed, without a sound.

And now Norton was not the only spectator. Far up the street a man had

emerged from a doorway. He saw the erupting volcanoes of dust in the

street, and he ran back, shouting, “Fight! Fight!”

Dawes had seen many fights, and had grown accustomed to them. But

there is always novelty in another, and long before Danforth had

received the blows that had rendered him inactive, nearly all the

doors of Dawes’s buildings were vomiting men. They came, seemingly, in

endless streams, in groups, in twos and singly, eager, excited, all

the streams converging at the street in front of the courthouse.

Mindful of the ethics in an affair of this kind, the crowd kept

considerately at a distance, permitting the fighting men to continue

at their work without interference, with plenty of room for their

energetic movements.

Word ran from lip to lip that Taylor, stung by the knowledge that he

had been robbed of the office to which he had been elected, had

attacked Carrington and Danforth with the grim purpose of punishing

them personally for their misdeeds.

Taylor was aware of the gathering crowd. When he had delivered the

blows that had finished his political rival, he saw the dense mass of

men in the street around him; and he felt that all Dawes had

assembled.

There was still no rancor in Taylor’s heart; the same savage humor

which had driven him into the courthouse to acquaint Carrington and

the others with his knowledge of their designs, still gripped him. He

had not meant to force a fight, but neither had he any intention of

permitting Carrington and Danforth to inflict physical punishment upon

him.

But a malicious devil had seized him. He knew that what he had done

would be magnified and distorted by Carrington, Danforth, and the

judge; that they would charge him with the blame for it; that he faced

the probability of a jail sentence for defending himself. And he was

determined to complete the work he had started.

Therefore, having disposed of Danforth, he grinned at the eager,

excited faces that hemmed him about, and wheeled toward Carrington.

He was just in time. For Carrington, not badly hurt by Taylor’s blow,

which had catapulted him out of the door of the courthouse, had been

standing back a little, awaiting an opportunity. The swiftness of

Taylor’s movements had prevented interference by Carrington; but now,

with Danforth down, Carrington saw his chance.

Without a word, Carrington lunged forward. They met with a shock that

caused the dry dust to splay and spume upward and outward in thin,

minute streaks like the leaping, spraying waters of a fountain. They

were lost, momentarily, in a haze, as the dust fell and enveloped

them.

They emerged from the blot presently, Carrington staggering, his chin

on his chest, his eyes glazed—Taylor crowding him closely. For while

they had been lost in the smother of dust, Taylor had landed a

deadening uppercut on the big man’s chin.

The big man’s brain was befogged; and yet he still retained presence

of mind enough to shield his chin from another of those terrific

blows. He had crossed his arms over the lower part of his face,

fending off Taylor’s fists with his elbows.

A Danforth man in the crowd called on Carrington to “wallop” Taylor,

and the big man’s answering grin indicated that he was not as badly

hurt as he seemed.

Almost instantly he demonstrated that, for when Taylor, still

following him, momentarily left an opening, Carrington stepped quickly

forward and struck—his big arm flashing out with amazing rapidity.

The heavy fist landed high on Taylor’s head above the ear. It was not

a blow that would have finished the fight, even had it landed lower,

but it served to warn Taylor that his antagonist was still strong, and

he went in more warily.

The advantage of the fight was all with Taylor. For Taylor was cool

and deliberate, while Carrington, raging over the blows he had

received, and in the clutch of a bitter desire to destroy his enemy,

wasted much energy in swinging wildly.

The inaccuracy of Carrington’s hitting amused Taylor; the men in the

crowd about him could see his lips writhing in a vicious smile at

Carrington’s efforts.

Carrington landed some blows. But he had lived luxuriously during the

later years of his life; his muscles had deteriorated, and though he

was still strong, his strength was not to be compared with that of the

out-of-door man whose clean and simple habits had toughened his

muscles until they were equal to any emergency.

And so the battle went slowly but surely against Carrington. Fighting

desperately, and showing by the expression of his face that he knew

his chances were small, he tried to work at close quarters. He kept

coming in stubbornly, blocking some blows, taking others; and finally

he succeeded in getting his arms around Taylor.

The crowd had by this time become intensely partisan. At first it had

been silent, but now it became clamorous. There were some Danforth

men, and knowing Danforth to be aligned with Carrington—because, it

seemed to them, Carrington was taking Danforth’s end of the fight—they

howled for the big man to “give it to him!” And they grew bitter when

they saw that despite Carrington’s best efforts, and their own verbal

support of him, Carrington was doomed to defeat.

Taylor’s admirers vastly outnumbered Carrington’s. They did not find

it necessary to shout advice to their champion; but they shouted and

roared with approval as Taylor, driving forward, the grin still on his

face, striking heavily and blocking deftly, kept his enemy retreating

before him.

Carrington, locking his arms around Taylor, hugged him desperately for

some seconds—until he recovered his breath, and until his head

cleared, and he could fix objects firmly in his vision; and then he

heaved mightily, swung Taylor from his feet and tried to throw him.

Taylor’s feet could get no leverage, but his arms were still free, and

with both of them he hammered the big man’s head until Carrington, in

insane rage, threw Taylor from him.

Taylor landed a little off balance, and before he could set himself,

Carrington threw himself forward. He swung malignantly, the blow

landing glancingly on Taylor’s head, staggering him. His feet struck

an obstruction and he went to one knee, Carrington striking at him as

he tried to rise.

The blow missed, Carrington turning clear around from the force of the

blow and tumbling headlong into the dust near Taylor.

They clambered to their feet at the same instant, and in the next they

came together with a shock that made them both reel backward. And

then, still grinning, Taylor stepped lightly forward. Paying no

attention to Carrington’s blows, he shot in several short, terrific,

deadening uppercuts that landed fairly on the big man’s chin.

Carrington’s hands dropped to his sides, his knees doubled and he fell

limply forward into the dust of the street where he lay, huddled and

unconscious, while turmoil raged over him.

For the Danforth men in the crowd had yielded to rage over the defeat

of their favorites. They had seen Danforth go down under the terrific

punishment meted out to him by Taylor; they had seen Carrington suffer

the same fate. Several of them drove forward, muttering profane

threats.

Norton, pale and watchful, fearing just such a contingency, shoved

forward to the center, shouting:

“Hold on, men! None of that! It’s a fair fight! Keep off, there—do you

hear?”

A score of Taylor men surged forward to Norton’s side; the crowd

split, forming two sections—one group of men massing near Norton, the

other congregating around a tall man who seemed to be the leader of

their faction. A number of other men—the cautious and faint-hearted

element which had no personal animus to spur it to participation in

what seemed to threaten to develop into a riot—retreated a short

distance up the street and stood watching, morbidly curious.

But though violence, concerted and deadly, was imminent, it was

delayed. For Taylor had not yet finished, and the crowd was curiously

following his movements.

Taylor was a picturesquely ludicrous figure. He was covered with dust

from head to foot; his face was streaked with it; his hair was full of

it; it had been ground into his cheeks, and where blood from a cut on

his forehead had trickled to his right temple, the dust was matted

until it resembled crimson mud.

And yet the man was still smiling. It was not a smile at which most

men care to look when its owner’s attention is definitely centered

upon them; it was a smile full of grimly humorous malice and

determination; the smile of the fighting man who cares nothing for

consequences.

The concerted action which had threatened was, by the tacit consent of

the prospective belligerents, postponed for the instant. The gaze of

every partisan—and of all the non-partisans—was directed at Taylor.

He had not yet finished. For an instant he stood looking down at

Carrington and Danforth—both now beginning to recover from their

chastisement, and sitting up in the dust gazing dizzily about

them—then with a chuckle, grim and malicious, Taylor dove toward the

door of the courthouse, where Littlefield was standing.

The judge had been stunned by the ferocity of the action he had

witnessed. Whatever judicial dignity had been his had been whelmed by

the paralyzing fear that had gripped him, and he stood, holding to the

door-jambs, nerveless, motionless.

He saw Taylor start toward him; he saw a certain light leaping in the

man’s eyes, and he cringed and cried out in dread.

But he had not the power to retreat from the menace that was

approaching him. He threw out his hands impotently as Taylor reached

him, as though to protest physically. But Taylor ignored the movement,

reaching upward, a dusty finger and thumb closing on the judge’s right

ear.

There was a jerk, a shrill cry of pain from the judge, and then he was

led into the street, near where Carrington and Danforth had fallen,

and twisted ungently around until he faced the crowd.

“Men,” said Taylor, in the silence that greeted him as he stood erect,

his finger and thumb still gripping the judge’s ear, “Judge

Littlefield is going to say a few words to you. He’s going to tell you

who started this ruckus—so there won’t be any nonsense about actions

in contempt of court. Deals like this are pulled off better when the

court takes the public into its confidence. Who started this thing,

judge? Did I?”

“No—o,” was Littlefield’s hesitating reply.

“Who did start it?”

“Mr. Carrington.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do?”

“He—er—struck at you.”

“And Danforth?”

“He attacked you while you were in the street.”

“And I’m not to blame?”

“No.”

Taylor grinned and released the judge’s ear. “That’s all, gentlemen,”

he said; “court is dismissed!”

The judge said nothing as he walked toward the door of the courthouse.

Nor did Carrington and Danforth speak as they followed the judge. Both

Carrington and Danforth seemed to have had enough fighting for one

day.

The victor looked around at the faces in the crowd that were turned to

his, and his grin grew eloquent.

“Looks like we’re going to have a mighty peaceable administration,

boys!” he said. His grin included Norton, at whom he deliberately

winked. Then he turned, mounted his horse—which had stood docilely

near by during the excitement, and which whinnied as he approached

it—and rode down the street to the Dawes bank, before which he

dismounted. Then he went to his rooms on the floor above, washed and

changed his clothes, and attended to the bruises on his face. Later,

looking out of the window, he saw the crowd slowly dispersing; and

still later he opened the door on Neil Norton, who came in, deep

concern on his face.

“You’ve started something, Squint. After you left I went into the

_Eagle_ office. The partition is thin, and I could hear Carrington

raising hell in there. You look out; he’ll try to play some dog’s

trick on you now! There’s going to be the devil to pay in this man’s

town!”

Taylor laughed. “How long does it take for a sprained ankle to mend,

Norton?”

Norton looked sharply at Taylor’s feet.

“You sprain one of yours?” he asked.

“Lord, no!” denied Taylor. “I was just wondering. How long?” he

insisted.

“About two weeks. Say, Squint, your brain wasn’t injured in that

ruckus, was it?” he asked solicitously.

“It’s as good as it ever was.”

“I don’t believe it!” declared Norton. “Here you’ve started something

serious, and you go to rambling about sprained ankles.”

“Norton,” said Taylor slowly, “a sprained ankle is a mighty serious

thing—when you’ve forgotten which one it was!”

“What in——”

“And,” resumed Taylor, “when you don’t know but that she took

particular pains to make a mental note of it. If I’d wrap the left one

up, now, and she knew it was the right one that had been hurt—or if

I’d wrap up the right one, and she knew it was the wrong one, why

she’d likely——”

_“She?”_ groaned Norton, looking at his friend with bulging eyes that

were haunted by a fear that Taylor’s brain _had_ cracked under the

strain of the excitement he had undergone. He remembered now, that

Taylor _had_ acted in a peculiar manner during the fight; that he had

grinned all through it when he should have been in deadly earnest.

“Plumb loco!” he muttered.

And then he saw Taylor grinning broadly at him; and he was suddenly

struck with the conviction that Taylor was not insane; that he was in

possession of some secret that he was trying to confide to his friend,

and that he had begun obliquely. Norton drew a deep breath of relief.

“Lord!” he sighed, “you sure had me going. And you don’t know which

ankle you sprained?”

“I’ve clean forgot. And now she’ll find out that I’ve lied to her.”

“_She?_” said Norton significantly.

“Marion Harlan,” grinned Taylor.

Norton caught his breath with a gasp. “You mean you’ve fallen in love

with her? And that you’ve made her—Oh, Lord! What a situation! Don’t

you know her uncle and Carrington are in cahoots in this deal?”

“It’s my recollection that I told you about that the day I got back,”

Taylor reminded him. And then Taylor told him the story of the

bandaged ankle.

When Taylor concluded, Norton lay back in his chair and regarded his

friend blankly.

“And you mean to tell me that all the time you were fighting

Carrington and Danforth you were thinking about that ankle?”

“Mostly all the time,” Taylor admitted.

Norton made a gesture of impotence. “Well,” he said, “if a man can

keep his mind on a girl while two men are trying to knock hell out of

him, he’s sure got a bad case. And all I’ve got to say is that you’re

going to have a lovely ruckus!”