“I know all that,” retorted McKenna. “That’s the law—and we’re going to break it. You’d hog the river on us, would you? Well, we’ll hog the booms and channel on you!”
Archer spat into the stream and swore. “I have nothing against you, McKenna, but you nor no other man can hang my drive. I’ll bring down my crew and clear you off the booms. If I can’t do that I’ll cut them and let the whole shootin’ match go down together.”
“That’s big talk,” said McKenna. “Now you listen here. We’re doing this cold because we have to, and you know it. We won’t stop at anything. Bring down your crew and try to clean us out if you like. We expect it. But if you try to cut the booms it’s different.” He pointed to a pier out in the current. On it in a state of splendid isolation, sat Davy Cottrell. ”That man out there has a rifle and he can hit birds flying with it. He’ll shoot the first man that touches the booms. If you don’t believe that, get somebody to try.”
Shortly afterward the first logs began to arrive, and with them Archer’s entire crew. Immediately they made a determined attempt to seize the booms, but as these were already occupied by Kent’s men, against whom they could advance only in single file, their numbers gave them little advantage. The fight raged along the length of the slippery, swaying boom-logs. Men knocked off into the river swam and climbed up again, or cunningly seized others by the ankles and upset them, taking the chance of being kicked in the face by spiked boots. Gradually Archer’s men pushed McKenna’s backward and might have driven them from the booms altogether had not the rest of Kent’s crew arrived, thirsting for battle.
Archer’s crew, now hopelessly outnumbered, fought gamely. The fight spread from booms to shore. Tobin went for Archer and met his match. MacNutt tried to get to Rough Shan, but could not. Quiet Deever, white-faced and eyes ablaze, his lips lifting at the corners in a wolfish snarl, was before him.
“‘Rough Shan’ they call you,” he gritted through set teeth. “Let’s see how rough you are, you dirty cur. Come on an’ rough it with a littler man, you lousy, camp-burnin’ high-banker!” He planted a terrific right in McCane’s face, and was himself knocked sideways the next instant by a heavy swing. They went at it hammer-and-tongs.
Joe Kent found himself paired with a smooth-faced, bronzed, shanty lad who fought with a grin and hit with a grunt. His blows were like the kicks of a mule, but his knowledge of boxing was rudimentary. The young boss smashed him almost at will, but the grin never faded. Always he came back for more, and when he landed, it jarred Joe from top to toe. Finally they clenched and wrestled to and fro among the rough stones of the beach. At this game Joe rather fancied himself, but all he ever remembered of the outcome was that suddenly his feet flew into the air—the rest was a shock, accompanied by marvellous constellations.
He came to with water sluicing his face and a hat fanning air into his lungs. He got to his feet rather dizzily, looked around and laughed.
“You cleaned them out, did you?”
Deever, his face battered and swollen and his knuckles cut to raw meat, grinned happily. Tobin, one eye closed and the other blinking, nodded.