p. That right, Westlake?"

"Yes. I saw her come into the crowd with young Ed. She wants to thank
you, Mormon. No use dodging it."

Young Ed was maneuverin' through to their side.

"Aunt wants to see you," he announced with a grin. "We heard the row
down here, an' she sent me to see what it was. When I didn't hurry back
she trailed me. Great snakes, Mormon, but you sure whaled him!"

"Huh!" Mormon said nothing but that mystic monosyllable until they
reached the place where Miranda Bailey stood apart from the crowd who
deferentially gave her room, whispering her supposed share in the recent
event. She did not look much like the heroine of a romance, neither did
Mormon resemble a hero. Her somewhat worn but wholesome face was set in
forbidding lines, but Westlake and Sandy fancied they saw the ghost of a
twinkle in her eyes. She greeted Mormon as if he had been a disgraced
schoolboy.

"What have you been fightin' about?" she demanded.

But, like Russell, she underestimated Mormon. His one working eye was
innocent of all guile as he looked at her.

"Fightin' fo'? Jest fo' the fun of it, marm."

She surveyed him grimly and then her features softened.

"I reckon yo're too tough to get hurt much," she said. "I can fix up
that eye. I sh'ud think a man of yore age 'ud have more sense than
fightin' at all in front of a crowd of hoodlums who ought to be asleep,
'stead of disturbin' the whole camp, let alone for sech a ridicklus
reason."

"I didn't think the reason ridicklus," said Mormon, and the spinster's
lips twitched.

"What he wants is a lancin' an' a chunk of raw beef," put in Simpson,
with a sympathetic wink at Mormon that suggested more pungent remedies
in the background. "Come up to my place."

There may have been some thought of trade from the many who would want
to see the victor at close range. Mormon hesitated, all slowly moving
toward the bridge. Men were staring toward the mesa whence came a
high-powered car, rushing at high speed, magnificently driven, taking
curve and pitch and level with superb judgment. Its lights flamed out on
the night. It turned and came on, stopping on the bridge, blocked by the
crowd that made slow opening for it. The driver, in chauffeur's livery,
sat immobile, controlling the car, his worldly-wise, blase face like a
mask. Two men were in the tonneau. One of them leaned forward, looking
at the crowd, a square-jawed man, clean-shaven but for the bristle of a
silver mustache b