Brayley glared after him a second,
grunted, and got to his feet.
"Well," he snarled, facing Conniston. "You licked me. Now what? Want
to beat me up some more?"
"No, I don't," Conniston answered him, steadily. "You know I had to do
it, Brayley. You had it coming to you after that first night in the
bunk-house. Now--I want to shake hands, if you do."
With a keen, measuring glance from under swelling eyelids, and no
faintest hesitation, Brayley put out his hand.
"Shake!" he grunted. "You done it fair. I didn't think you had it in
you. And"--with a distorted grin--"I'll 'scuse the left hand, Con!"
CHAPTER XI
Brayley and Conniston went together into the corral and picked up the
three revolvers. Then Conniston turned toward the stable to get his
horse. Brayley's eyes followed him, narrowing speculatively.
"Hey, Conniston," he called, sharply, "where you goin'?"
"To work. It's late now."
"Yes, it's late, all right. But you better go up to the bunk-house
first an' fix your hand up. Oh, don't be a fool. Come ahead. I'm goin'
to straighten out my face a bit."
So Conniston turned back, and the two men went to the bunk-house. The
cook was pottering around his stove, cleaning up his pots and pans. He
looked up curiously as they came in, realizing that by now they should
have been at work. The faint, careless surprise upon his face changed
suddenly into downright bewilderment as he saw the dust-covered
bodies, the cut lips, blood-streaked cheeks, and swelling eyes of the
two men.
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