he, there was need of getting a good start.

But the Pilgrim was not the sort to lie on his bunk and take a
thrashing. He came up after the second blow, pushing Billy back with
the very weight of his body, and they were fighting all over the
little cabin, surging against the walls and the table and knocking the
coffee-pot off the stove as they lurched this way and that. Not much
was said after the first outburst of Billy's, save a panting curse now
and then between blows, a threat gasped while they wrestled.

It was the dog, sneaking panther-like behind Billy and setting
treacherous teeth viciously into his leathern chaps, that brought the
crisis. Billy tore loose and snatched his gun from the scabbard at his
hip, held the Pilgrim momentarily at bay with one hand while he took a
shot at the dog, missed, kicked him back from another rush, and turned
again on the Pilgrim.

"Get that dawg outdoors, then," he panted, "or I'll kill him sure."
The Pilgrim, for answer, struck a blow that staggered Billy, and tried
to grab the gun. Billy, hooking a foot around a table-leg, threw it
between them, swept the blood from his eyes and turned his gun once
more on the dog that was watching treacherously for another chance.

"That's the time I got him," he gritted through the smoke, holding
the Pilgrim quiet before him with the gun. "But I've got a heap more
respect for him than I have for you, yuh damn', low-down brute. I'd
ought to kill yuh like I would a coyote. Yuh throw your traps together
and light out uh here, before I forget and shoot yuh up. There ain't
room in this camp for you and me no more."