Again as Brayley
sprang up, Conniston stood over him. Again Conniston's fist, his left,
but driven with all of the power left in him, beat mercilessly into
the already cut face, driving Brayley down upon his knees. Now he was
swaying helplessly, hopelessly. But still the dogged spirit within him
was undefeated. A strange sort of respect, involuntary, of mingled
admiration and pity; surged into Conniston's heart. He was not angry,
he had not been angry from the beginning. This was merely a bit of his
duty, a part of the day's work, the beginning of regeneration, the
keeping of a promise. He was sorry for the man. But he was not
forgetting his promise. Brayley was swaying to his feet, his two big
hands lifted loosely, weakly, before him. Through their inefficient
guard Conniston struck once more, the last blow, swinging from the
shoulder. And Brayley went down heavily, like a falling timber, and
lay still.
For a little Conniston stood over him, watchful, wiping the blood from
the gash in his cheek. He saw that Brayley's eyes were closed, and
felt a quick fear that he had killed him. Then he saw the eyelids
flutter open, close, open again, as the foreman's eyes rested steadily
upon his. He waited. Brayley lifted his head, even struggled to his
elbow, only to fall back prone.
They were not ten feet from the empty corral. Lonesome Pete, his
saddle mended, rode slowly around the corner of the stable toward the
gate.
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