In a very few seconds he would be like a
rag doll in the other's big, strong hands....
"Well," panted Brayley, "what are you waitin' for? I'll lick you yet!"
Conniston came on, stepping slowly, cautiously. Brayley stood still,
his clenched fists at his waist, his back against the fence. His eyes
left the other's face for a second and ran to the broken hand swinging
at his side. A quick light of understanding leaped into the big
cattle-man's face, and he laughed softly. And as he laughed he stepped
forward, lifting his fists.
Conniston swung at him with his left hand. The blow whizzed by
Brayley's ear, for he had foreseen it and had ducked. But as he
retaliated with a crushing blow, Conniston sprang to the side,
ducking. Now it was Brayley again who rushed, a leaping light of hope
of victory, surety of victory, in his eyes.
But Conniston saw his one chance and took it. He did not give back.
And he did not offer the poor defense of one arm against the flail of
blows. Instead he stooped low, very low, jerking his body double,
dropping suddenly under Brayley's threshing arms, and hurled himself
bodily to meet the attack, his left shoulder thrust forward, striking
Brayley with the full impact of his hundred and eighty pounds just
below the knees. They both went down, down together, and with
Conniston underneath. But to Brayley the thing had come with a
stunning shock of unexpectedness just as he saw the end of the fight,
and Conniston was on his feet a second the first.
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