where the sharp rowels of the range-rider's spurs had torn the
flesh.

They quartered over the ground many times as they fought. Sometimes
they were on their feet slogging hard. Once, at least, they crouched
knee to knee. Lying on the ground, they struck no less furiously and
desperately. All sense of fair play, of sportsmanship, was gone. They
struggled to kill and not be killed.

Their lungs labored heavily. They began to stagger as they moved. The
muscles of their arms lost their resilience. Their legs dragged as
though weighted. Harrison was, if a choice might be made, in worse case.
He was the stronger man, but he lacked the tireless endurance of the
other. Watching him with animal wariness, Yeager knew that the man who
went down first would stay down. His enemy was sagging at the knees. He
could with difficulty lift his arms. He fought only in spurts. All this
was true of himself, too. But somewhere in him was that dynamic will not
to be beaten that counted heavily as a reserve.

The prizefighter called on himself for the last attack. He stumbled
forward, head down, in a charge. An aimless blow flung Steve against the
trunk of the live-oak. His arms thrashing wildly, Harrison plunged
forward to finish him. The cowpuncher ducked, lurched to one side.
Against the bark of the tree crashed the fist of the other, swinging him
half round.

Yeager flung himself on the back of his foe. Human bone and flesh and
muscle could do no more. The knees of Harrison gave and he sank to the
ground, his head falling in the spring. His opponent, breathless and
exhausted, lay motionless on top of him. For a time both lay without
stirring. The first to move was Steve. He noticed that the nose and
mouth of the senseless man lay beneath the water. By exerting all his
strength he pulled the battered head almost out of the water. Very
slowly and painfully he got to his feet. Leaning against the tree for
support, he looked down at the helpless white face of the man he had
hated so furiously only a few minutes earlier. That emotion had entirely
vanished. It was impossible to feel any resentment against that bruised
and bleeding piece of clay. Steve was conscious only of a tremendous
desire to lie down and go to sleep.

He laved his face with water as best he could, picked up the belt he had
thrown away, and drunkenly climbed the hill toward Ruth.

She cried out at sight of him with a heart of joy, but as he lurched
nearer she slid from