t'other man kin do, but he looks game."

"No, let 'em fight it out fa'r an' squar'," suggested red-faced Buck
Hillhouse, the bar-keeper, in the autocratic tone he used in conducting
cock-fights in his back yard.

The blood had left Westerfelt's face. Wambush's eyes gleamed
desperately; disarmed, he looked less a man than an infuriated beast.
Westerfelt was waiting for him to make the attack, but, unlike his
antagonist, was growing calmer every second. All at once Wambush sent
his right arm towards Westerfelt's face so quickly that the spectators
scarcely saw it leave his side, but it was not quicker than
Westerfelt's left, which skilfully parried the thrust. Then, before
Toot could shield himself, Westerfelt struck him with the force of a
battering-ram squarely in the mouth.

Wambush whined in pain, spat blood from gashed lips, and shook his head
like a lion wounded in the mouth. He ran backward a few feet to
recover himself, and then, with a mad cry, rushed at Westerfelt and
caught him by the throat. Westerfelt tried to shake him off, but he
was unsuccessful. He attempted to strike him in the face, but Wambush
either dodged the thrusts or caught them in his thick hair. It seemed
that Westerfelt's only chance now was to throw his assailant down, but
his strength had left him, Wambush's claws had sunk into his neck like
prongs of steel. He could not breathe.

"Hit 'im in the bread-basket, John!" cried Luke Bradley.

It was a happy suggestion. Westerfelt struck Wambush in the stomach.
With a gasp and an oath, Wambush doubled up and released Westerfelt's