When morning came, Conniston was the last man to crawl out of his
bunk. At breakfast he was the last man to finish. He dawdled over his
coffee until the cook stared curiously at him, he used up a great deal
of time buttering his hot cakes, he ate very slowly. Only after every
other man had left the table did he push his plate aside and go out
into the yard. His manner was unusually quiet this morning, his jaw
unusually firm, his eye unusually determined. He saw with deep
satisfaction that all of the Half Moon men except Lonesome Pete and
Brayley had ridden away upon their day's work. The red-headed cowboy
was even now going down to the corrals, a vacant look in his blue
eyes, the corners of a little volume sticking out of his hip-pocket,
his lips moving to unspoken words. Brayley was going through the
fringe of trees toward the house, evidently to speak with Mr. Crawford
upon some range business. Conniston strolled slowly down toward the
corrals, stopping and loitering when he had got there.
Now and then he caught a glimpse of Lonesome Pete mending his saddle
just within the half-open stable door, but for the most part his eyes
rested steadily upon the little path which wriggled through the grove
and toward the house. He made and smoked a cigarette, tossing away the
burned stub. He glanced at his watch, noticed that he was already
half an hour late in going to work, and turned back toward the house,
his expression the set, even, placid expression of a man who waits,
and waits patiently. Five minutes passed--ten minutes--and he stood
still, making no move to get his horse and ride upon his day's duties.
And then, walking swiftly, Brayley came out of the trees and hurried,
lurching, toward the corral.
"What are you waitin' for?" he cried, sharply, when twenty paces away.
"Ain't you got nothin' to do to-day?"
Conniston made no answer, turning his eyes gravely upon Brayley's
face, waiting for the man to come up to him.
"Can't you hear?" called Brayley again, more sharply, coming on
swiftly. "What are you waitin' an' loafin' here for?"
"I want to talk with you a minute." Conniston's voice was very quiet,
almost devoid of expression.
"Well, talk. An' talk fast! I ain't got all day."
Brayley was standing close to him now, his eyes boring into
Conniston's, his manner impatient, irritated. For just a moment
Conniston stood as though hesitating, leaning slightly forward,
balanced upon the balls of his feet. Then he sprang forward suddenly,
without sign of warning, taking the big foreman unawares, throwing
both arms about the stalwart body, driving the heavier body back with
the impact of the one hurled against it. Brayley, standing carelessly,
loosely, his feet not braced, but close together, unprepared for the
attack, fell heavily, lifted clean off his feet, born backward, and
slammed to the ground with the breath jolted out of him, Conniston on
top of him.
"You d--n coward!" he bellowed, as his breath came back into his body.
"Sneakin' coward!"
He bunched his great strength and hurled it against the man, who clung
to him. Still he was at a disadvantage, being under the other and
having both arms locked to his side by the clinging embrace which held
him powerless. For a moment the two men lay writhing and twisting upon
the ground, half hid in their quiet struggle by the dust which puffed
up from the dry ground about them. Then, as Brayley again gathered his
strength in a mighty effort to rid himself of the man who held him
down, Conniston loosened his hold, springing back and up to his feet.
And in each hand Conniston held one of Brayley's guns. A quick
gesture, and as Brayley rose to his feet he saw his two revolvers
flying skyward, over the high fence and into the big corral.
"You got 'em!" Brayley cried, hoarse with anger. "Shoot, you
coward--an' be d--d to you!"
For answer Conniston jerked his own gun from his belt, tossing it to
lie with Brayley's two in the dust of the corral.
"We're ruling guns out of this, Brayley," he said, quietly. "It's
going to be just man to man."
For a moment Brayley stood, open-mouthed, staring at him. Then, as
understanding came to him, a great roar burst from his lips, and with
his huge fists clenched he rushed at Conniston. In the sudden access
of rage which blinded the man Conniston might have stepped aside. But
it was no part of his grim purpose to temporize. As Brayley rushed
upon him Conniston, too, sprang forward, and the two men met with a
dull, heavy thud of panting bodies. Brayley's weight was the greater,
his rush fiercer, and Conniston was flung back in spite of his dogged
determination not to give up an inch. He had felt Brayley's iron fist
before, but not with the rage behind it which now drove it into
Conniston's face. The blow laid open his cheek and hurled him
backward, to land upon his feet, his body rocking dizzily, his back
jammed against the corral. And only the corral kept him from falling.
Again Brayley's great sledge-hammer fists shot out, Brayley's eyes
glowing redly behind them. Conniston knew that one more blow like the
last one, full in the face, and again he would have been beaten by
Brayley. He remembered--and, strangely enough, the remembrance came to
him calmly even while the heart within him beat as though bursting
against the walls of his chest and the blood hammered hot in his
ears--what Argyl had said the other day as they rode to Rattlesnake
Valley. She had told him that Brayley had licked him because Brayley
had been the better man. He knew that if Brayley beat him down now it
would be because he was the better man. And he had told Argyl that he
was going to lick Brayley. She had laughed. None the less, it was a
promise to her, his first promise, and he was going to keep it.
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.
Conniston swung at him with his left hand. The blow whizzed by
Brayley's ear, for he had foreseen it and had ducked. But as he
retaliated with a crushing blow, Conniston sprang to the side,
ducking. Now it was Brayley again who rushed, a leaping light of hope
of victory, surety of victory, in his eyes.
But Conniston saw his one chance and took it. He did not give back.
And he did not offer the poor defense of one arm against the flail of
blows. Instead he stooped low, very low, jerking his body double,
dropping suddenly under Brayley's threshing arms, and hurled himself
bodily to meet the attack, his left shoulder thrust forward, striking
Brayley with the full impact of his hundred and eighty pounds just
below the knees. They both went down, down together, and with
Conniston underneath. But to Brayley the thing had come with a
stunning shock of unexpectedness just as he saw the end of the fight,
and Conniston was on his feet a second the first. Again as Brayley
sprang up, Conniston stood over him. Again Conniston's fist, his left,
but driven with all of the power left in him, beat mercilessly into
the already cut face, driving Brayley down upon his knees. Now he was
swaying helplessly, hopelessly. But still the dogged spirit within him
was undefeated. A strange sort of respect, involuntary, of mingled
admiration and pity; surged into Conniston's heart. He was not angry,
he had not been angry from the beginning. This was merely a bit of his
duty, a part of the day's work, the beginning of regeneration, the
keeping of a promise. He was sorry for the man. But he was not
forgetting his promise. Brayley was swaying to his feet, his two big
hands lifted loosely, weakly, before him. Through their inefficient
guard Conniston struck once more, the last blow, swinging from the
shoulder. And Brayley went down heavily, like a falling timber, and
lay still.
For a little Conniston stood over him, watchful, wiping the blood from
the gash in his cheek. He saw that Brayley's eyes were closed, and
felt a quick fear that he had killed him. Then he saw the eyelids
flutter open, close, open again, as the foreman's eyes rested steadily
upon his. He waited. Brayley lifted his head, even struggled to his
elbow, only to fall back prone.
They were not ten feet from the empty corral. Lonesome Pete, his
saddle mended, rode slowly around the corner of the stable toward the
gate. The horse which he was riding was a half-broken three-year-old,
but Lonesome Pete was at home upon the backs of half-broken
three-year-olds. And his red head was full of Jocelyn Truxton and
"Macbeth." He rode with his hat low over his eyes, one hand holding
his horse's reins, the other grasping firmly a little book. So it
happened that Lonesome Pete rode through the gate and close to the two
men and did not see them.
But the horse did see them, did see a man lying stretched upon the
ground, and with the sharp nostrils of its kind the horse scented
fresh blood. The result was that the frightened brute reared,
snorting, and wheeled suddenly, plunging back through the corral gate.
And Lonesome Pete, taken unawares as he sat loosely in the saddle, was
jerked rudely out of his dreamings of the fair Jocelyn and the bloody
Macbeth to find his horse shooting out from under him, and to find
himself sitting upon the hard ground with his legs in Brayley's lap.
Brayley's strength of lungs came back to him with a new anger. "You
howlin' idiot, what are you tryin' to do?"
"I was a-readin'," responded Lonesome Pete, still grinning vapidly,
still not quite certain whether the things which he saw about him were
real things or literary hallucinations.
"A-readin'!" snapped Brayley, sitting up. "That what I'm payin' you
for, you blame gallinipper!"
With a glance from Brayley's lacerated face to the bloody smears on
Conniston's, Lonesome Pete got to his feet and, shaking his head and
dusting the seat of his overalls as he went, turned and disappeared
into the stable after his horse. Brayley glared after him a second,
grunted, and got to his feet.
"Well," he snarled, facing Conniston. "You licked me. Now what? Want
to beat me up some more?"
"No, I don't," Conniston answered him, steadily. "You know I had to do
it, Brayley. You had it coming to you after that first night in the
bunk-house. Now--I want to shake hands, if you do."
With a keen, measuring glance from under swelling eyelids, and no
faintest hesitation, Brayley put out his hand.
"Shake!" he grunted. "You done it fair. I didn't think you had it in
you. And"--with a distorted grin--"I'll 'scuse the left hand, Con!"