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.
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