with your fists. I'll sit up here and see that there's no dirty work.
First, advance and shake hands."

"I'm damned if I will," said Y.D.

The revolver spoke, and the bullet cut dangerously close to him.

"Don't talk back to me again," she cried, "or you won't be able to
fight. Now shake hands."

He extended his hand and Wilson took it for a moment.

"Now when I count three," said the girl, "pile in. There's no time
limit. Fight 'til somebody's satisfied. One--two--three--"

At the sound of the last word Wilson caught his opponent a punch on the
chin which stretched him. He got up slowly, gathering his wits about
him. He was twenty years younger than Wilson, but a rancher of fifty
is occasionally a better man than he was at thirty. Any disadvantages
Wilson suffered from being shaken up in the lariat were counterbalanced
by Y.D.'s branding. His face was burning painfully, and his vision was
not the best. But he had not followed the herds since childhood without
learning to use his fists. He steadied himself on his knee to bring his
mind into tune with this unusual warfare. Then he rushed upon Wilson.

He received another straight knock-out on the chin. It jarred the joints
of his neck and left him dazed. It was half a minute before he could
steady himself. He realized now that he had a fight on his hands. He was
too cool a head to get into a panic, but he found he must take his time
and do some brain work. Another chin smash would put him out for good.