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 That thought was uppermost in the whirl of his blinding emotions of vindication and vengeance, hot anger and desperation.

He was overmatched by fifty pounds, and Sawyer was fighting with the tools which he knew best how to use. The one advantage that Hartwell had was his shiftiness of foot, which kept him out of Sawyer's rib-crushing arms. Up and down the ring of men they surged and slashed, blows falling on both sides, blood streaming from faces, from gashed knuckles, the rim of onlookers widening and contracting to accommodate the fury of the clash.

As the combat lengthened and the punishment that each received increased, their fury grew. Caution was no longer a part of either man's policy. They met hand to hand, bent, panted, gasped, dripping blood. Hartwell had got a blow that nearly closed his right eye. His face was cut, his nose and lips were swollen, his mouth was full of blood.

He did not know what damage Sawyer had suffered, but it seemed that his fists fell on the cowman's hard body with little effect. Sawyer cursed him and insulted him with every vile name that was a challenge on the range, and surged at him in his roaring charges, at last planting a blow that sent Hartwell spinning and stretched him on his back. The cowman would have followed up this