"Are you ready, St. Pierre?"
"It is not fair, and she will never forgive me. You are no match for
me. I am half again as heavy."
"And as big a coward as you are a scoundrel, St. Pierre."
"It is like a man fighting a boy."
"Yet it is less dishonorable than betraying the woman who is your wife
for another who should have been hanged along with her brother, St.
Pierre."
Boulain's face darkened. He drew back half a dozen steps and cried out
a word to Bateese. Instantly the circle of waiting men grew tense as
the half-breed jerked the big handkerchief from his head and held it
out at arm's length. Yet, with that eagerness for the fight there was
something else which Carrigan was swift to sense. The attitude of the
watchers was not one of uncertainty or of very great expectation, in
spite of the staring faces and the muscular tightening of the line. He
knew what was passing in their minds and in the low whispers from lip
to lip. They were pitying him. Now that he stood stripped, with only a
few paces between him and the giant figure of St. Pierre, the
unfairness of the fight struck home even to Concombre Bateese. Only
Carrigan himself knew how like tempered steel the sinews of his body
were built. But to the eye, in size alone, he stood like a boy before
St. Pierre. And St. Pierre's people, their voices stilled by the deadly
inequality of it, were waiting for a slaughter and not a fight.
A smile came to Carrigan's lips as he saw Bateese hesitating to drop
the handkerchief, and with the swiftness of the trained fighter he made
his first plan for the battle before the cloth fell from the
half-breed's fingers, As the handkerchief fluttered to the ground, he
faced St. Pierre, the smile gone.
"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.
Concombre Bateese, with his great mouth agape, stood for an instant as
if the blow had stunned him in place of his master. Then, suddenly he
came to life, and leaped to David's side.
"Diable! Tonnerre! You have not fight Concombre Bateese yet!" he
howled. "Non, you have cheat me, you have lie, you have run lak cat
from Concombre Bateese, ze stronges' man on all T'ree River! You are
wan' gran' coward, wan poltroon, an' you 'fraid to fight ME, who ees
greates' fightin' man in all dees countree! Sapristi! Why you no hit
Concombre Bateese, m'sieu? Why you no hit ze greates' fightin' man w'at
ees--"
David did not hear the rest. The opportunity was too tempting. He
swung, and with a huge grunt the gorilla-like body of Concombre Bateese
rolled over that of the chief of the Boulains. This time Carrigan did
not wait, but followed up so closely that the half-breed had scarcely
gathered the crook out of his knees when another blow on the jaw sent
him into the sand again. Three times he tried the experiment of
regaining his feet, and three times he was knocked down. After the last
blow he raised himself groggily to a sitting posture, and there he
remained, blinking like a stunned pig, with his big hands clutching in
the sand. He stared up unseeingly at Carrigan, who waited over him, and
then stupidly at the transfixed cordon of men, whose eyes were bulging
and who were holding their breath in the astonishment of this miracle
which had descended upon them. They heard Bateese muttering something
incoherent as his head wobbled, and St. Pierre himself seemed to hear
it, for he stirred and raised himself slowly, until he also was sitting
in the sand, staring at Bateese.
Carrigan picked up his shirt, and the riverman who had brought him from
the bateau returned with him to the canoe. There was no demonstration
behind them. To David himself the whole thing had been an amazing
surprise, and he was not at all reluctant to leave as quickly as his
dignity would permit, before some other of St. Pierre's people offered
to put a further test upon his prowess. He wanted to laugh. He wanted
to thank God at the top of his voice for the absurd run of luck that
had made his triumph not only easy but utterly complete. He had
expected to win, but he had also expected a terrific fight before the
last blow was struck. And there had been no fight! He was returning to
the bateau without a scratch, his hair scarcely ruffled, and he had
defeated not only St. Pierre, but the giant half-breed as well! It was
inconceivable--and yet it had happened; a veritable burlesque, an
opera-bouffe affair that might turn quickly into a tragedy if either
St. Pierre or Concombre Bateese guessed the truth of it. For in that
event he might have to face them again, with the god of luck playing
fairly, and he was honest enough with himself to confess that the idea
no longer held either thrill or desire for him. Now that he had seen
both St. Pierre and Bateese stripped for battle, he had no further
appetite for fistic discussion with them. After all, there was a merit
in caution, and he had several lucky stars to bless just at the present
moment!
Inwardly he was a bit suspicious of the ultimate ending of the affair.
St. Pierre had almost no cause for complaint, for it was his own
carelessness, coupled with his opponent's luck, that had been his
undoing--and luck and carelessness are legitimate factors of every
fight, Carrigan told himself. But with Bateese it was different. He had
held up his big jaw, uncovered and tempting, entreating some one to hit
him, and Carrigan had yielded to that temptation. The blow would have
stunned an ox. Three others like it had left the huge half-breed
sitting weak-mindedly in the sand, and no one of those three blows were
exactly according to the rules of the game. They had been mightily
efficacious, but the half-breed might demand a rehearing when he came
fully into his senses.
Not until they were half-way to the bateau did Carrigan dare to glance
back over his shoulder at the man who was paddling, to see what effect
the fistic travesty had left on him. He was a big-mouthed, clear-eyed,
powerfully-muscled fellow, and he was grinning from ear to ear.
"Well, what did you think of it, comrade?"
The other gave his shoulders a joyous shrug.
"Mon Dieu! Have you heard of wan garcon named Joe Clamart, m'sieu? Non?
Well, I am Joe Clamart what was once great fightin' man. Bateese hav'
whip' me five times, m'sieu--so I say it was wan gr-r-r-a-n' fight!
Many years ago I have seen ze same t'ing in Montreal--ze boxeur de
profession. Oui, an' Rene Babin pays me fifteen prime martin against
which I put up three scrubby red fox that you would win. They were bad,
or I would not have gambled, m'sieu. It ees fonny!"
"Yes, it is funny," agreed David. "I think it is a bit too funny. It is
a pity they did not stand up on their legs a little longer!" Suddenly
an inspiration hit him. "Joe, what do you say--shall you and I return
and put up a REAL fight for them?"
Like a sprung trap Joe Clamart's grinning mouth dosed. "Non, non, non,"
he grunted. "Dere has been plenty fight, an' Joe Clamart mus' save hees
face tor Antoinette Roland, who hate ze sign of fight lak she hate ze
devil, m'sieu! Non, non!"
His paddle dug deeper into the water, and David's heart felt lighter.
If Joe was an average barometer, and he was a husky and
fearless-looking chap, it was probable that neither St. Pierre nor
Bateese would demand another chance at him, and St. Pierre would pay
his wager.
He could see no one aboard the bateau when he climbed from the canoe.
Looking back, he saw that two other canoes had started from the
opposite shore. Then he went to his cabin door, opened it, and entered,
Scarcely had the door closed behind him when he stopped, staring toward
the window that opened on the river.
Standing full in the morning glow of it was Marie-Anne Boulain. She was
facing him. Her cheeks were flushed. Her red lips were parted. Her eyes
were aglow with a fire which she made no effort to hide from him. In
her hand she still held the binoculars he had left on the cabin table.
He guessed the truth. Through the glasses she had watched the whole
miserable fiasco.
He felt creeping over him a sickening shame, and his eyes fell slowly
from her to the table. What he saw there caught his breath in the
middle. It was the entire surgical outfit of Nepapinas, the old Indian
doctor. And there were basins of water, and white strips of linen ready
for use, and a pile of medicated cotton, and all sorts of odds and ends
that one might apply to ease the agonies of a dying man, And beyond the
table, huddled in so small a heap that he was almost hidden by it, was
Nepapinas himself, disappointment writ in his mummy-like face as his
beady eyes rested on David.
The evidence could not be mistaken. They had expected him to come back
more nearly dead than alive, and St. Pierre's wife had prepared for the
thing she had thought inevitable. Even his bed was nicely turned down,
its fresh white sheets inviting an occupant!
And David, looking at St. Pierre's wife again, felt his heart beating
hard in his breast at the look which was in her eyes. It was not the
scintillation of laughter, and the flame in her cheeks was not
embarrassment. She was not amused. The ludicrousness of her mislaid
plans had not struck her as they had struck him. She had placed the
binoculars on the table, and slowly she came to him. Her hands reached
out, and her fingers rested like the touch of velvet on his arms.
"It was splendid!" she said softly, "It was splendid!"
She was very near, her breast almost touching him, her hands creeping
up until the tips of her fingers rested on his shoulders, her scarlet
mouth so close he could feel the soft breath of it in his face.
"It was splendid!" she whispered again.
And then, suddenly, she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him. So
swiftly was it done that she was gone before he sensed that wild touch
of her lips against his own. Like a swallow she was at the door, and
the door opened and closed behind her, and for a moment he heard the
quick running of her feet. Then he looked at the old Indian, and the
Indian, too, was staring at the door through which St. Pierre's wife
had flown.