Half stunned though he was, Bob still had the wit to fling himself
swiftly to one side, and he did so with such quick, intuitive agility
that the long, sharp spikes of Schaeffer’s shoe barely grazed the flesh
of his thigh.
Bob Bainbridge’s brain was cleared with the thoroughness and rapidity of
an electric shock. He leaped to his feet just as the foreman tripped
over Joe Moose’s deftly extended foot, and crashed headlong to the
ground.
“Get up, you cur!” cried Bainbridge, as he jerked off the encumbering
Mackinaw and tossed it from him. “Get up and take what’s coming to you!”
He was filled with the sudden, fierce, elemental joy of physical combat.
For what seemed an eternity he had been holding himself in check by
sheer will power, and now the relief of handling with bare fists this
fellow who had played such a contemptible trick upon him was
indescribable.
Schaeffer was on his feet like a cat, and came at Bainbridge with a
rush. Bob side-stepped, swinging with his right at the drive boss’ ribs.
To his astonishment the blow was blocked with the cleverness of a
professional. An instant later Schaeffer whirled like a Dervish, and
again his opponent felt the tearing of those spikes in the flesh of his
left leg as he went staggering to both knees.
The surprise of discovering that Schaeffer could box scientifically was
undoubtedly what checked Bob, and gave the fellow a chance to get in
that second foul kick. The touch of those spikes, the realization that a
man who could fight fairly and squarely was low enough to resort to such
disgraceful tactics, made Bainbridge see red. Whether the Indian
interfered again in his behalf he could not tell. He only knew that he
was on his feet once more, fighting instinctively, and fairly
overwhelming his opponent with a series of rushes which there was no
withstanding. Schaeffer blocked them as best he could, depending a lot
on clever footwork, and waited for his chance. It seemed certain that
Bainbridge would soon let up and take things easier, and then it would
be possible for the tricky riverman to use some of the other fouls of
which he seemed to be a master.
The moment Bob came to his senses he did cut down his steam
considerably. No human being could keep up that speed for any length of
time and hope for victory, and Bainbridge meant to be victorious in this
struggle. Even though Schaeffer possessed the skill of a champion, he
must be beaten in some way, for the thought of succumbing to a
treacherous cur like this was intolerable.
The fight which followed was a strange one. Bainbridge had never known
anything like it in all his varied experience as a boxer. His opponent
possessed exceptional skill in the art; he would, in fact, have been a
hard man to defeat in the conventional ring. Add to this a knowledge of
fouling which was simply extraordinary, and it will be seen what sort of
an antagonist he was.
The mere mental strain involved was exhausting. Not only had Bob the
thousand legitimate devices of the ring to look out for, but he never
knew when to expect a vicious jab below the belt, or a nasty butt from
the head. And always in the back of his mind was a fear that those
murderous spikes might at any moment strike deeply, maimingly at the
vital spot for which they had been aimed twice before.
By this time, of course, every “river hog” within sight had raced up,
and the combatants were surrounded by a ring of eager spectators,
several deep, which swayed and moved and billowed out elastically as the
fight progressed. A number of them were evidently in sympathy with
Schaeffer, and kept urging him to go in and win, but the majority
remained silent save for occasional muttered ejaculations when a
particularly clever or vicious blow struck home. Moose, his small black
eyes glistening, but otherwise as stolid and unmoved as ever, managed
constantly to retain his position in the front row.
For a long time Bainbridge kept his opponent in hand. Always the strain
of waiting, expecting, planning to meet the unknown foul, was uppermost
in his mind, to the exclusion of almost everything else. He knew in an
intuitive sort of way that he was fighting well. He had landed several
blows which staggered the man, and the fellow’s face, from which Bob
never for an instant withdrew his eyes, was cut and bleeding. That
proved little, however. He was evidently the sort that could take any
amount of punishment, and come up for more. His wind seemed to be quite
as good as Bob’s, and at length the latter was conscious of a single
flash of doubt regarding the issue.
What if he should not win, as he had determined in the beginning? What
if Schaeffer should, by fair means or foul, manage to knock him out? It
would not be like an ordinary knock-out--simply the end of a fairly
fought contest to decide which of two men is the better scrapper. He
would be helpless for a space, and in the power of this cur who had thus
far stopped at nothing. Moose could accomplish little on his behalf when
opposed by the crowd of spectators, all of whom seemed, from what
Bainbridge had caught of their comments, to be on Schaeffer’s side.
The thought of what might happen was not a pleasant one, and possibly it
was that which led to Bainbridge’s undoing. He had so far instinctively
avoided clinches as being favorable to fouls, but now, with his mind for
a second partially distracted, after delivering a left-hand jab he did
not spring back as swiftly as he might have done. The riverman took
instant advantage of the chance, and leaped forward, gripping Bob’s
wrist. In an instant Bainbridge had wrenched it away, but not too soon
to prevent that close contact which he felt to be so dangerous.
“He’ll try something dirty now,” flashed through Bob’s brain. “I knew
it! No, you don’t--now.”
Just in time he saw Schaeffer’s left knee suddenly jerked up and
forward. Like a flash he leaped to one side, his whole mind intent on
thwarting the intended trick, and so he fell for a move which would
never ordinarily have bothered him.
A clenched fist, hard and compact almost as a stone, thudded solidly on
the very point of his jaw. Bainbridge went suddenly limp, slipping
noiselessly to the ground.