heavily. Then passion marked him for the thing
he was. Garrison saw confronting him not the unctuous, plausible friend,
but a hunted animal, with fear and venom showing in his narrowed eyes.
And, curiously enough, he noticed for the first time that the prison
pallor was strong on Crimmins' face, and that the hair above his
outstanding ears was clipped to the roots.

Then Crimmins spoke; through his teeth, and very slowly: "So you'll
go to Waterbury, eh?" And he nodded the words home. "You--little cur,
you--you little misbegotten bottle of bile! What are you and your
hypocrisies to me? You don't know me, you don't know me." He laughed,
and Garrison felt repulsion fingering his heart. Then the former trainer
shot out a clawing, ravenous hand. "I want that money--want it quick!"
he spat, taking a step forward. "You want hatred, eh? Well, hatred
you'll have, boy. Hatred that I've always given you, you miserable,
puling, lily-livered spawn of a--"

Garrison blotted out the insult to his mother's memory with his
knuckles. "And that's for your friendship," he said, smashing home a
right cross.

Crimmins arose very slowly from the white road, and even thought of
flicking some of the fine dust from his coat. He was smiling. The moon
was very bright. Crimmins glanced up and down the deserted pike. From
the distant town a bell chimed the hour of eight. He had twenty pounds
the better of the weights, but he was taking no chances. For Garrison,
all his wealth of hard-earned fistic education roused, was waiting;
waiting with the infinite patience of the wounded cougar.

Crimmins looked up and down the road again. Then he came in, a
black-jack clenched until the veins in his hand ridged out purple and
taut as did those in his neck. A muscle was beating in his wooden cheek.
He struck savagely. Garrison side-stepped, and his fist clacked under
Crimmins' chin. Neither spoke. Again Crimmins came in.

A great splatter of hoof-beats came from down the pike, sounding like
the vomitings of a Gatling gun. A horse streaked its way toward them.
Crimmins darted into the underbrush bordering the pike. The horse came
fast. It flashed past Garrison. Its rider was swaying in the saddle;
swaying with white, tense face and sawing hands. The eyes were fixed
straight ahead, vacant. A broken saddle-girth flapped raggedly. Garrison
recognized the fact that it was a runaway, with Sue Desha up.

Another horse followed, throwing space furiously. It was