away from the trail and into the recesses of a box canon, or detoured below the horizon and crawled slowly to the ridge tops again. Somewhat to the right of them stood a butte, black and forbidding, at which Gillette constantly glanced. And at last Christine ventured a question. "What is it?"
He drew himself from his study. "I'm trying to make up the story in this. There's always some kind of a yarn in a set of hoof prints. And when you see hoof prints mixed with boot prints that story usually promises a suprise ending."
Quite of a sudden his head came up, turning sidewise. She thought she heard a faint sound floating through the morning drone. And again she marked the strange shift of his expression. "Come on," he muttered. His horse raced up a slope, Kit lagging. He stopped an instant on the backbone of the ridge; then she saw him rise in his stirrups and fling the quirt down on the pony's rump. When she rode to the crest he was a hundred yards away.
Directly in his path and another fifty yards to the fore a pair of horses stood idle. Her eyes caught them first; then, as Gillette swerved, she saw two figures locked together, struggling. Gillette was off his horse, sand spurting up beneath his boots, and racing onward. The pair had split; two men in a fight. One of them was Lispenard. Kit galloped ahead.
The other was not a man, but a girl dressed in man's clothing; quite striking of features and at this moment trembling with exhaustion. Certainly it wasn't fear, for her black eyes sparkled with outraged emotion, and she was crying, "You dam' dog! I could kill you! I could!" Then Christine Ballard heard Gillette break in; and there was such a suppressed fury in his words that she felt the stab of an emotion hitherto quite alien—jealousy.
"I am going to whip you, Blondy," he was saying. "It ought to be a gun, but I'll give you your own weapons. Put up your hands, you damned yellow cur! You are going to get a lesson you have needed all your life."
Lispenard's heavy lips pulled back from his teeth; a spotty, purplish colour stood along his cheeks. He was sullen, vindictive. "You fool!" he cried. "I've had enough of your fine manners! I'm weary of 'em, hear me! By heavens, I've sickened on your cursed air of superiority!"
"Put up your hands."
"Don't get on a pedestal for the women!" shouted Lispenard; he flung back his shoulders and the knotted muscles rippled through his shirt. He had never bulked so immense, so destructively powerful as at that moment; he stood half a head over Gillette, he was thicker, more massive in every respect; and as he took a step forward, knees suddenly springing a little under the weight of his body, he seemed like a wild animal from the jungle. "I have always whipped you, my lad! And I'll smash your ribs until you won't walk so upright and almighty—And then I'll take my leave! I'm cursed tired of your ways!"
"Save your breath, Blondy."
The great body went across the interval as if shot from a catapault. Fists struck so swiftly that Christine Ballard couldn't follow them. She screamed, but above the shrillness of it she heard the impact of bodies, the expelling of great breaths, the shuffling of feet in the sand. It was quite impossible that large men could move with that agility; Lispenard's yellow head made a complete circle under the sun; arms feinted, drew back, feinted again and smashed against their targets. Tom sagged, supporting himself on one knee; Lispenard's face blazed with the killer's instinct. "Get up and fight! Always did lack guts! Get up and fight before I kick you to pieces!" Gillette was up. Again Lispenard's great frame snapped across the space. Gillette was off his guard, and he was flung back by a single sledgelike blow. In falling he caught Lispenard's arm and together they sprawled on the ground, rolled, arm wrenching at arm, knees striking like pistons. Body crushed against body. They were on their feet once more and Tom Gillette's face was crimson and his shirt had been ripped from collar to belt.
Lispenard came on, crouching, a strangled cry in his throat. And the rip and smash of flesh so sickened Christine Ballard that she had to support herself in the saddle with both hands. They had gone mad, all reason and all sense of pain had deserted them. They fought as only the most brutal type of animals could fight, bent on the kill. And now and then, as Lispenard's choking yell broke the silence of the prairie, she recalled his remark. "Beneath, I'm a seething furnace. Oh, quite so." He had been truthful to her; hell could not distill a more insane fury than that which trembled on his smeared and distorted face.
She was not a man, or she would have noticed, as the fight drew out, that it was Lispenard whose head went down and whose charges grew the more aimless and broken; whose breath came out of him like a sob. Gillette was checking the other's attack. Through a dimming vision he found his mark easier to strike. He pressed, he saw his opponent's face at odd angles as his fists smashed it and rolled it back. Lispenard's bulging eyes lost their firmness, and at that point Gillette summoned whatever was left of his strength. He had been taught fine blows once, he had been instructed in sportsmanship. All that went overboard with the rest of the Eastern junk. He could not hit hard enough to satisfy the urge of his will. He could only follow on and on, past the blur of a woman on a horse, past the blur of a woman crouching to the ground; lashing out and feeling a numb reaction run through his arms. To strike again and follow in the endless circle until, through the red film, he saw only the glare of the horizon. His throbbing body felt no return blow; and he looked down in a hazy wonder. The Blond Giant lay senseless.
He turned, seeking his horse. He wanted something to lean against before his legs gave way, he wanted to see the prairie again before he went blind. There was a shadow in front of him; he thought it was Lispenard returning to fight. A girl's voice spoke in warning. "No—don't hit at me, Tom! No—Tom, it's all over. He's down. Put your arms around me! Your poor, poor face."
He sat on the ground, a cool hand pressed against his temple and a cloth skirted across his mouth. It was all over, and Lorena was on her knees trying to wipe away the blood. The ringing died out of his ears, he began to feel the ache of his body where terrific blows had punished him. But they were lesser things. Lesser things. It was Lorena who kept doubling back the bandana to find a dry spot; and what was a woman thinking about and what was a woman feeling whose eyes were like this girl's? God alone knew, but that expression would trouble him from now on, sleeping or waking.
"I think," he mumbled, "I'd better smoke. I'm comin' back down the tunnel. For a time I went twenty feet away from myself."
Talking dispelled the mists. He rose uncertainly. "If he'd hit me a few more times I'd be knocking on the gates." He felt light- hearted, without a trace of resentment. The smoke of the cigarette stung the bruises of his lips, and he threw it away. Lispenard was reviving; as for Christine Ballard, she sat very still in the saddle, which reminded him of something.
"Kit, this is Lorena Wyatt, next neighbour to me. Christine Ballard, Lorena. She's a guest from the East."
It seemed a little queer that neither of them spoke—only bowed. He turned away and left them together while he confronted Lispenard. The latter pushed himself upright.
"I could always whip you—until you got stung," he muttered. "All right. No love lost, my boy. And we'll forget about shaking hands, too. I'm not through with this yet."
"I'll donate you the horse," replied Gillette. "Travel in any direction you want—but not back to the ranch. If I see you on my range again I'll use a gun. You're rotten fruit, Blondy. I've suspected it for some time."
He followed Lispenard and stood beside the latter's horse.
"They say it's every man for himself out here," mused Lispenard. "Well, I'll be on my way. But just put this in your bonnet, old-timer: I don't consider it over with. I'll balance the ledger if it takes me a thousand years. Put it down in red ink."
The fight had drained them of animus; so they stood and looked at each other, a world apart in every respect, utter strangers. Then Lispenard
