obody come in!"

Braman retired, grinning expectantly.

Then Corrigan backed away until he came to the wall. Reaching far up, he
hung his revolver on a nail.

"Now," he said to Trevison, his voice throaty from passion; "take off your
damned foolish trappings. I'm going to knock hell out of you!"

CHAPTER III

BEATING A GOOD MAN

Trevison had not moved. He had watched the movements of the other closely,
noting his huge bulk, his lithe motions, the play of his muscles as he
backed across the room to dispose of the pistol. At Corrigan's words
though, Trevison's eyes glowed with a sudden fire, his teeth gleamed, his
straight lips parting in a derisive smile. The other's manner toward him
had twanged the chord of animosity that had been between them since the
first exchange of glances, and he was as eager as Corrigan for the clash
that must now come. He had known that the first conflict had been an
unfinished thing. He laughed in sheer delight, though that delight was
tempered with savage determination.

"Save your boasts," he taunted.

Corrigan sneered. "You won't look so damned attractive when you leave this
room." He took off his hat and tossed it into a corner, then turned to
Trevison with an ugly grin.

"Ready?" he said.

"Quite." Trevison had not accepted Corrigan's suggestion about taking off
his "damned foolish trappings," and he still wore them--cartridge belt,
leather chaps, spurs. But now he followed Corrigan's lead and threw his
hat from him. Then he crouched and faced Corrigan.

They circled cautiously, Trevison's spurs jingling musically. Then
Trevison went in swiftly, jabbing with his left, throwing off Corrigan's
vicious counter with the elbow, and ripping his right upward. The fist met
Corrigan's arm as the latter blocked, and the shock forced both men back a
step. Corrigan grinned with malicious interest and crowded forward.

"That's good," he said; "you're not a novice. I hope you're not a quitter.
I've quite a bit to hand you for riding me down."

Trevison grinned derisively, but made no answer. He knew he must save his
wind for this man. Corrigan was strong, clever; his forearm, which had
blocked Trevison's uppercut, had seemed like a bar of steel.

Trevison went in again with the grim purpose of discovering just how
strong his antagonist was. Corrigan evaded a stiff left jab intended for
his chin, and his own right cross missed as Trevison ducked into a clinch.
With arms locked