CHAPTER XIII
THE FIGHT
At about the time that Chavis and Kester had discovered Ruth's pony andhad clambered up the slope in search of the girl, the two figures on thetimber-fringed level near the break in the canyon wall were makinggrotesque shadows as they danced about in the dying sunlight.
Masten's science had served him well. He had been able, so far, to evademany of Randerson's heavy blows, but some of them had landed. They hadhurt, too, and had taken some of the vigor out of their target, thoughMasten was still elusive as he circled, with feet that dragged a little,feinting and probing for openings through which he might drive his fists.
A great many of his blows had reached their mark also. Randerson's facewas covered with livid lumps and welts. But he seemed not to mind them,to be unconscious of them, for on his lips was still the dogged smilethat had reached them soon after the fight had started, and in his eyeswas the same look of cold deliberation and unrelenting purpose.
He had spoken no word since the fight began; he had taken Masten'sheaviest punches without sign or sound to indicate that they had landed,always crowding forward, carrying the battle to his adversary, refusingto yield a step when to yield meant to evade punishment. Passion, deepand gripping, had made him for the moment an insensate automaton; he wasdevoid of any feeling except a consuming desire to punish the despoilerof his "kid."
But he was holding this passion in check; he was its master--it had notmastered him; he had made it a vassal to his deliberation. To haveunleashed it all at once would have made him too eager, would haveweakened him. He had chosen this punishment for Masten, and he would seethat it was sufficient.
But, as Randerson had well known, Masten was no mean opponent. He steppedin and out rapidly, his blows lacking something in force through hisinability to set himself. But he landed more often than Randerson; heblocked and covered cleverly; he ducked blows that would have ended thefight had they struck him with their full force.
Masten had been full of confidence when the fight started. Some of thatconfidence had gone now. He was beginning to realize that he could notbeat Randerson with jabs and stinging counters that hurt withoutdeadening the flesh where they struck; nor could he hope to wear theWesterner down and finally finish him. And with this realization came apulse of fear. He began to take more risks, to set himself more firmly onhis feet in order to give his blows greater force when they landed. Forhe felt his own strength waning, and he knew what the end would be,should he no longer be able to hold Randerson off.
He went in now with a left jab, and instead of dancing back to avoidRanderson's counter, he covered with the left, swiftly drawn back fromthe jab, and hooked his right to Randerson's face. The blow landedheavily on Randerson's jaw, shaking him from head to foot. But he shookhis head as though to dissipate the effect of it, and came after Mastengrimly. Again Masten tried the maneuver, and the jab went homeaccurately, with force. But when he essayed to drive in the right, it wasblocked, and Randerson's right, crooked, rigid, sent with the force of abattering ram, landed fairly on Masten's mouth, with deadening, crushingeffect.
It staggered Masten, sent him back several feet, and his legs shook underhim, sagging limply. His lips, where the blow had landed, were smashed,gaping hideously, red-stained. Randerson was after him relentlessly.Masten dared not clinch, for no rules of boxing governed this fight, andhe knew that if he accepted rough and tumble tactics he would be beatenquickly. So he trusted to his agility, which, though waning, answeredwell until he recovered from the effects of the blow.
And then, with the realization that he was weakening, that the last blowhad hurt him badly, came to Masten the sickening knowledge that Randersonwas fighting harder than ever. He paid no attention to Masten's blows,not even attempting to fend them off, but bored in, swinging viciously.His blows were landing now; they left deadened flesh and paralyzedmuscles as marks of their force.
Masten began to give way. Half a dozen times he broke ground, or slippedto one side or the other. It was unavailing. Blows were coming at him nowfrom all angles, ripping, tearing, crashing blows that seemed to increasein force as the fight went on. One of them caught Masten just below theear on the right side. He reeled and went to his haunches, and dizzy,nauseated, he sat for an instant, trying to fix the world correctly inhis vision, for it was all awry--trees, the plains, himself--all weredancing. Dimly he sensed the form of Randerson looming over him. He stillwas able to grasp the danger that menaced him, and reeling, he threwhimself headlong, to escape Randerson, landing on his side on the ground,and with an inarticulate shriek of fury, he pulled the small caliberpistol from his hip pocket, aimed it at the shadowy form of his adversaryand pressed the trigger.
And then it seemed that an avalanche had struck him; that he was whirledalong by it, then buried under it.
Evidently he had been buried for a long time, for when he opened his eyesthe dense blackness of the Western night had descended. He felt a dull,heavy pain in his right wrist, and he raised it--it seemed to have beencrushed. He laid the hand down again, with a groan, and then he heard avoice. Looking up, he saw the shadowy figure of his conqueror standingover him.
"I reckon I've handed it to you pretty bad," said Randerson. "But you hadit comin' to you. If you hadn't tried to play the skunk at the lastminute, you'd have got off easier. I reckon your hand ain't so active asit's been--I had to pretty near stamp it off of you--you would keeppullin' the trigger of that pop-gun. Do you reckon you c'n get up now,an' get on your horse?"
Masten felt himself lifted; he did not resist. Then he felt the saddleunder him; he made an effort and steadied himself. Then, still only halfconscious he rode, reeling in the saddle, toward a light that he saw inthe distance, which, he dimly felt, must come from the Flying Wranchhouse.