it was a raging torrent that made Marianne stop her ears with a shiver.

Looking down the street away from the storming giant and the laughing
cowpuncher, she saw that other folk had come out to watch, Westernlike.
An Eastern crowd would swiftly hem the enemies in a close circle and
cheer them on to battle; but these Westerners would as soon see far off
as close at hand. The most violent expression she saw was the broad grin
of the blacksmith. He was a fine specimen of laboring manhood, that
blacksmith, with the sun glistening on his sweaty bald head and over his
ample, soot-darkened arms. Beside his daily work of molding iron with
heat and hammer-blows, a fight between men was play; and now, with his
hands on his hips, his manner was that of one relaxed in mood and ready
for entertainment.

Presently he cast up his right arm and swayed to the left; then back;
then rocked forward on his toes presenting two huge fists red with
iron-rust and oil. It seemed that he was engaging in battle with some airy
figure before him.

That was enough of a hint to make Marianne look again towards the pair
directly below her; the hat of the gaudy cowpuncher lay in the dust
where it had evidently been knocked by the first poorly aimed blow of
him of the moustaches, and the owner of the hat danced away at a little
distance. Marianne saw what the hat had hitherto concealed, a shock of
flame-red hair, and she removed her fingers from her ears in time to
hear the big man roar: "This ain't a dance, damn you! Stand still and
fight!"

"Nope," laughed the other. "It ain't a dance. It's a pile more fun. Come
on you--"