It was a struggle between two big, strong men--the one desperate,
unscrupulous, brutal; the other angry enough, but retaining
self-control. They crashed onto the floor, Westcott still retaining
the advantage of position, and twice he struck, driving his clenched
fist home. Suddenly he became aware that some one had jerked his
revolver from its holster, and, almost at the same instant a hard hand
gripped the neck-band of his shirt and tore him loose from Beaton.

"Here, now--enough of that, Jim," said a voice sternly, and his hands
arose instinctively as he recognised the gleam of two drawn weapons
fronting him. "Help Beaton up, Joe. Now, look yere, Mr. Bully
Westcott," and the speaker shook his gun threateningly. "As it
happens, you have jumped on a friend o' ours, an' we naturally propose
to take a hand in this game--you know me!"

Westcott nodded, an unpleasant smile on his lips.

"I do, Lacy," he said coolly, "and that if there is any dirty work
going on in this camp, it is quite probable you and your gang are in
it. So, this New Yorker is a protégé of yours?"

"That's none of your business; we're here for fair play."

"Since when? Now listen; you've got me covered, and that is my gun
which Moore has in his hand. I cannot fight you alone and unarmed; but
I can talk yet."

"I reckon yer can, if that's goin' ter do yer eny good."