y the bridge," he
announced. "He's been drinking black coffee to sober up on. He's got
some of his own sort with him. I think they're nearly ready to come
up-street. He knows you are in camp and looking for him."

"Then we'd better be shackin' erlong," said Mormon, mopping up gravy
with half a biscuit. "I w'udn't want to keep him waitin'."

Outside, it was apparent that the whole camp was waiting for the
appearance of the two principals in an event that was not to be allowed
to be dealt with purely as a personal encounter. The waiter's estimate
was a fair one. The moon had risen, sailing round and fair and mild of
beam from behind the eastern hills, making pallid by comparison the
artificial flares. The one street was packed with men, not all of whom
were sober. The crowd thickened every moment from outlets of the
gambling shacks and saloons. All other business and pleasure was
forgotten with the swift word passing to say that the cowman who had
slapped the bully in the face and challenged him that morning to a
catch-as-catch-can, free-for-all contest, was now in Alf Simpson's Chuck
House while his opponent, in the cold range of enforced, semi-sobriety,
was in Su Sing's Hashery, the pair about to emerge.

This was to be better than any gunplay, a gladiatorial combat to delight
the hearts of frontiersmen. And they warmed to it. All day there had
been rumors busy of the clash, of the matters involved. Garbled versions
of the truth ran excitement up to hot-blood heat. The town had stayed up
for developments. Bets had been made on Plimsoll's backing down at
sunrise; on the cowman, Mormon; on the bully, Russell.

The affair with Plimsoll at sun-up was likely to be short and sharp. Men
who knew the three from the Three Star Ranch spread their opinions. The
prime event was the scrap. Russell was, or had been, a professional
wrestler and held fame as a rough-and-tumble fighter. Mormon had once
beaten all comers for the Cow Belt. The spectators swarmed like bees and
buzzed as busily. They came in from the claims, warned by their friends.
They greeted Mormon with a shout and one bulk of them surged down toward
the bridge over Flivver Creek, escorting the three partners and
Westlake, Simpson and his help with them. More were milling up-street
from Su Sing's place, Russell in their midst. Where the two factions
met, the principals kept apart by the crowd, a broad-shouldered giant
with the voice of a bull and a beard that crimped