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.
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