winds, and it was replaced with vindictive but cool purpose.

"Showdown!" he muttered under his breath, "I knew it had to come!" He
was conscious of a feeling of vast relief. Aloud he responded, blithely
and rudely, "Oh! to hell with _you_!"

Yorke checked his horse with a suddenness that brought the animal back
onto its haunches. Sitting square and motionless in the saddle for a
moment he stared at George with an expression almost of shocked
amazement; then his face became convulsed with ruthless passion.

The junior constable had pulled up also, and now wheeling "half-left" and
lolling lazily in his saddle with shortened leg stared back at his enemy
with an expression there was no mistaking. His debonair young face had
altered in an incredible fashion. Although his lips were pursed up with
their whistling nonchalance his eyes had contracted beneath scowling
brows into mere pin-points of steel and ice. He looked about as docile
as a young lobo wolf--cornered.

"Ah!" murmured Yorke, noting the transformation; and he seemed to
consider. He had seen that look on men's faces before. Insensibly,
passion had vanished from his face; the bully had disappeared; and in his
place there sat in saddle a cool, contemptuous gentleman.

"Are you talking back to me?" he said. He did not look astounded
now--seemed rather to assume it.

Redmond's scowling brows lifted a fraction. "Talking back?" he echoed,
"sure! Who the devil do you think you're trying to come 'the Tin Man'
over?"

Reluctantly Yorke discounted his first impressions. Here was no
self-conscious bravado. Warily he surveyed George for a moment--the cool
appraising glance of the ring champion in his corner scanning his
challenger--then, swinging out of the saddle, he dropped his lines and
began to unbuckle his spurs.

There was no mistaking his actions. Redmond followed suit. A few
seconds he looked dubiously at his horse, then back at Yorke.

"Oh, you needn't be scared of Fox beating it," remarked that gentleman a
trifle wearily, "he'll stand as good as old Parson if you chuck his lines
down."

Shading his eyes from the sun-glare he took a rapid survey of their
surroundings, then led the way to a wind-swept patch of ground, more or
less bare of snow. Arriving thither, as if by mutual consent they flung
off caps, side-arms, fur-coats and stable-jackets. Yorke, a graceful,
compactly-built figure of a man, sized up his slightly heavier opponent
wi