er, and then the Swede aimed
a lightning blow that carried with it his entire weight. Johnnie was
evidently half stupid from weakness, but he miraculously dodged, and
his fist sent the over-balanced Swede sprawling.

The cowboy, Scully, and the Easterner burst into a cheer that was like
a chorus of triumphant soldiery, but before its conclusion the Swede
had scuffled agilely to his feet and come in berserk abandon at his
foe. There was another perplexity of flying arms, and Johnnie's body
again swung away and fell, even as a bundle might fall from a roof.
The Swede instantly staggered to a little wind-waved tree and leaned
upon it, breathing like an engine, while his savage and flame-lit eyes
roamed from face to face as the men bent over Johnnie. There was a
splendor of isolation in his situation at this time which the
Easterner felt once when, lifting his eyes from the man on the ground,
he beheld that mysterious and lonely figure, waiting.

"Arc you any good yet, Johnnie?" asked Scully in a broken voice.

The son gasped and opened his eyes languidly. After a moment he
answered, "No--I ain't--any good--any--more." Then, from shame and
bodily ill he began to weep, the tears furrowing down through the
blood-stains on his face. "He was too--too--too heavy for me."

Scully straightened and addressed the waiting figure. "Stranger," he
said, evenly, "it's all up with our side." Then his voice changed into
that vibrant huskiness which is commonly the tone of the most simple
and deadly announcements. "Johnnie is whipped."

Without replying, the victor moved off on the route to the front door
of the hotel.

The cowboy was formulating new and un-spellable blasphemies. The
Easterner was startled to find that they were out in a wind that
seemed to come direct from the shadowed arctic floes. He heard again
the wail of the snow as it was flung to its grave in the south. He
knew now that all this time the cold had been sinking into him deeper
and deeper, and he wondered that he had not perished. He felt
indifferent to the condition of the vanquished man.

"Johnnie, can you walk?" asked Scully.

"Did I hurt--hurt him any?" asked the son.

"Can you walk, boy? Can you walk?"

Johnnie's voice was suddenly strong. There was a robust impatience in
it. "I asked you whether I hurt him any!"

"Yes, yes, Johnnie," answered the cowboy, consolingly; "he's hurt a
good deal."

They raised him from the ground, and as soon as he was o