Steele endured blow after blow; then, as through a mist, he found at
length the opening he sought; an instant's opportunity on which all
depended.

Every fiber of his physical being responded; he threw himself forward,
the weight of his body, the force of a culminating impetus, went into
his fist; it hit heavily; full on the point of the chin beneath the
brutal mouth. Tom Rogers' head shot back as if he had received the blow
of a hammer; he threw up his arms; this time he lay where he struck the
ground.

John Steele swayed; with an effort he sustained himself. Was it over?
Still Rogers did not move; Steele stooped, felt his heart; it beat
slowly. Mechanically, as if hardly knowing what he did, John Steele
began to count; "Time!" Rogers continued to lie like a log; his mouth
gaped; the blow, in the parlance of the ring, had been a "knock-out";
or, in this case, a _quid pro quo_. Yes, the last, but without referee
or spectators! The prostrate man did stir now; he groaned; John Steele
touched him with his foot.

"Get up," he said.

The other half-raised himself and regarded the speaker with dazed eyes.
"What for?"

John Steele went to the stand, picked up his revolver, and then sat down
at a table. "You're as foul a fighter as you ever were," he said
contemptuously.

* * * * *