Part 8 (1/2)

”Showdown!” he muttered under his breath, ”I knew it had to come!” He was conscious of a feeling of vast relief. Aloud he responded, blithely and rudely, ”Oh! to h.e.l.l with _you_!”

Yorke checked his horse with a suddenness that brought the animal back onto its haunches. Sitting square and motionless in the saddle for a moment he stared at George with an expression almost of shocked amazement; then his face became convulsed with ruthless pa.s.sion.

The junior constable had pulled up also, and now wheeling ”half-left” and lolling lazily in his saddle with shortened leg stared back at his enemy with an expression there was no mistaking. His debonair young face had altered in an incredible fas.h.i.+on. Although his lips were pursed up with their whistling nonchalance his eyes had contracted beneath scowling brows into mere pin-points of steel and ice. He looked about as docile as a young lobo wolf--cornered.

”Ah!” murmured Yorke, noting the transformation; and he seemed to consider. He had seen that look on men's faces before. Insensibly, pa.s.sion had vanished from his face; the bully had disappeared; and in his place there sat in saddle a cool, contemptuous gentleman.

”Are you talking back to me?” he said. He did not look astounded now--seemed rather to a.s.sume it.

Redmond's scowling brows lifted a fraction. ”Talking back?” he echoed, ”sure! Who the devil do you think you're trying to come 'the Tin Man'

over?”

Reluctantly Yorke discounted his first impressions. Here was no self-conscious bravado. Warily he surveyed George for a moment--the cool appraising glance of the ring champion in his corner scanning his challenger--then, swinging out of the saddle, he dropped his lines and began to unbuckle his spurs.

There was no mistaking his actions. Redmond followed suit. A few seconds he looked dubiously at his horse, then back at Yorke.

”Oh, you needn't be scared of Fox beating it,” remarked that gentleman a trifle wearily, ”he'll stand as good as old Parson if you chuck his lines down.”

Shading his eyes from the sun-glare he took a rapid survey of their surroundings, then led the way to a wind-swept patch of ground, more or less bare of snow. Arriving thither, as if by mutual consent they flung off caps, side-arms, fur-coats and stable-jackets. Yorke, a graceful, compactly-built figure of a man, sized up his slightly heavier opponent with an approving eye.

”You strip good” he said carelessly. ”Well! what's it to be? . . .

'muck' or 'm.u.f.fin'?”

”'m.u.f.fin' of course!” snapped Redmond angrily, ”what d'ye take me for?--a 'rough-house meal ticket'?”

”All right!” said Yorke soothingly, ”don't lose your temper!”

It may have been a shrewdly-calculated attempt to attain that end; and yet again it may have been only sheer mechanical habit that prompted him to stretch forth his hands in the customary salute of the ring.

With an inarticulate exclamation of rage the younger man struck the proffered hands aside and led with a straight left for the other's head.

Yorke blocked it cleverly and fell into a clinch.

”Ah!” murmured Yorke in his antagonist's ear with a sinister smile, ”rotten manners! for just that, my buck, I'll make you scoff 'm.u.f.fin'

'till you're quite poorly!”

Working his arms cautiously, he sprang clear of the clinch, then, rus.h.i.+ng his man and feinting for the ribs, he rocked Redmond's head back with two terrific left and right hooks to the jaw.

The jarring sting of the punches, although dazing him slightly, brought Redmond to his senses, as he realized how vulnerable his momentary loss of temper had rendered him. He now braced himself with dogged determination and, covering up warily, circled his adversary with clever foot-work. Yorke, tearing in again was met with one of the crudest jabs he had ever known--flush in the mouth. Gamely he retaliated with a stinging uppercut and a right swing which, coming home on Redmond's cheek-bone, whirled him off his balance and sent him sprawling.

Dazed, but not daunted, he scrambled to his feet. Yorke, blowing upon his knuckles with all the air of an old-time ”Regency blood,” waited with heaving chest and scornful, narrowed eyes.

”Want to elevate the sponge?” he queried sneeringly.

”No!” panted George grimly, ”it was you started the whole rotten dirty business, and, by gum! I'll finish it!”

Dancing in and out he drew an ineffective left from his opponent and countered with a pile-driving right to the heart. Yorke gave vent to a groaning exclamation and turned pale. He spat gaspingly out of his mashed lips and propped Redmond off awhile; then, suddenly springing in again he attempted to mix it. George was nothing loath, and the two men, standing toe-to-toe, slugged each other with a perfect whirlwind of damaging punches to face and body.

Even in the giddy whirl of combat, in either man's heart now was a wonder almost akin to respect for each other's ring knowledge and gameness. It was not George's first bout by many, but the physical endurance of this hard, clean-hitting Corinthian of a man was an astounding revelation to him; the science of the graceful, narrow-waisted figure was still as quick and as punis.h.i.+ng as a steel trap.