Conniston sprang forward to follow up
the blow. But Brayley had caught his balance and was leaping to meet
him, snarling. His hard, toil-blackened fist drove through Conniston's
guard, striking him full upon the jaw. Conniston reeled, and before he
could catch himself a second blow caught him under the ear, and with
outflung arms he pitched backward and fell, striking the back of his
head upon the rough boards of the floor.
For one dizzy moment the world went black for him. And then it went
red, flaming, flaring red, as he heard a man's laugh. An anger the
like of which he had never known in the placid days of his easy life
was upon him, an anger which made him forget all things under the arch
of heaven excepting the one man with bloody fists glaring into his
eyes, an anger blind and hot and primitive. Again he knew that he was
on his feet; again he was rushing at the man who stood waiting for
him.
"Stan' back!" roared Brayley. "I ain't goin' to play with you all
day."
Conniston laughed and did not know that he had done so. He only saw
that Brayley had stepped back a pace, and that he had something, black
but glistening in the pale light, tight clenched in his hand. Crying
out hoarsely, inarticulately, he threw himself forward.
Again Brayley met him, this time the revolver in his hand thrust
before him. It was almost in Conniston's face now.
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