a door behind the wire netting. “Right here,” he directed.
Corrigan indicated the door with a jerking movement of the head. “Move!” he said shortly, to Trevison. The latter’s lips parted in a cold, amused grin, and he hesitated slightly, yielding presently.
An instant later the three were standing in the middle of a large room, empty except for a cot upon which Braman slept, some clothing hanging on the walls, a bench and a chair. Corrigan ordered the banker to clear the room. When that had been done, Corrigan spoke again to the banker:
“Get his gun.”
A snapping alertness of the eyes indicated that Trevison knew what was coming. That was the reason he had been so quiescent this far; it was why he made no objection when Braman passed his hands over his clothing in search of other weapons, after his pistol had been lifted from its holster by the banker.
“Now get out of here and lock the doors!” ordered Corrigan. “And let nobody 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 they strained, legs braced, their lungs heaving as they wrestled, doggedly.
Corrigan stood like a post, not giving an inch. Vainly Trevison writhed, seeking a position which would betray a weakened muscle, but though he exerted every ounce of his own mighty strength Corrigan held him even. They broke at last, mutually, and Corrigan must have felt the leathery quality of Trevison’s muscles, for his face was set in serious lines. His eyes glittered malignantly as he caught a confident smile on Trevison’s lips, and he bored in silently, swinging both hands.
Trevison had been the cool boxer, carefully trying out his opponent. He had felt little emotion save that of self-protection. At the beginning of the fight he would have apologized to Corrigan—with reservations. Now he was stirred with the lust of battle. Corrigan’s malignance had struck a responsive passion in him, and the sodden impact of fist on flesh, the matching of strength against strength, the strain of iron muscles, the contact of their bodies, the sting and burn of blows, had aroused the latent savage in him. He was still cool, however, but it was the crafty coolness of the trained fighter, and as Corrigan crowded him he whipped in ripping blows that sent the big man’s head back. Corrigan paid little heed to the blows; he shook them off, grunting. Blood was trickling thinly from his lips; he spat bestially over Trevison’s shoulder in a clinch, and tried to sweep the latter from his feet.
The agility of the cow-puncher saved him, and he went dancing out of harm’s way, his spurs jingling. Corrigan was after him with a rush. A heavy blow caught Trevison on the right side of the neck just below the ear and sent him, tottering, against the wall of the building, from which he rebounded like a rubber ball, smothering Corrigan with an avalanche of deadening straight-arm punches that brought a glassy stare into Corrigan’s eyes. The big man’s head wabbled, and Trevison crowded in, intent on ending the fight quickly, but Corrigan covered instinctively, and when Trevison in his eagerness missed a blow, the big man clinched with him and hung on doggedly until his befoggled brain could clear. For a few minutes they rocked around the room, their heels thudding on the bare boards of the floor, creating sounds that filtered through the enclosing walls and smote the silence of the outside world with resonant rumblings. Mercilessly, Trevison hammered at the heavy head that sought a haven on his shoulder. Corrigan had been stunned and wanted no more long range work. He tried to lock his big arms around the other’s waist in an attempt to wrestle, realizing that in that sort of a contest lay his only hope of victory, but Trevison, agile, alert to his danger, slipped elusively from the grasping hands and thudded uppercuts to the other’s mouth and jaws that landed with sickening force. But none of the blows landed on a vital spot, and Corrigan hung grimly on.
At last, lashing viciously, wriggling, squirming, swinging around in a wide circle to get out of Corrigan’s clutches, Trevison broke the clinch and stood off, breathing heavily, summoning his reserve strength for a finishing blow. Corrigan had been fearfully punished during the last few minutes, but he was gradually recovering from his dizziness, and he grinned hideously at Trevison through his smashed lips. He surged forward, reminding Trevison of a wounded bear, but Trevison retreated warily as he measured the distance from which he would drive the blow that would end it
He was still retreating, describing a wide circle. He swung around toward the door through which Braman had gone—his back was toward it. He did not see the door open slightly as he passed; he had not seen Braman’s face in the slight crevice that had been between door and jamb all along. Nor did he see the banker jab at his legs with the handle of a broom. But he felt the handle hit his legs. It tripped him, forcing him to lose his balance. As he fell he saw Corrigan’s eyes brighten, and he twisted sideways to escape a heavy blow that Corrigan aimed at him. He only partially evaded it—it struck him glancingly, a little to the left of the chin, stunning him, and he fell awkwardly, his left arm doubling under him. The agonizing pain that shot through the arm as he crumpled to the floor told him that it had been broken at the wrist. A queer stupor came upon him, during which he neither felt nor saw. Dimly, he sensed that Corrigan was striking at him; with a sort of vague half-consciousness he felt that the blows were landing. But they did not hurt, and he laughed at Corrigan’s futile efforts. The only feeling he had was a blind rage against Braman, for he was certain that it had