Haggarty and Rough Shan, locked in a deadly grip, fought like bulldogs
Joe’s sense of fair play was outraged. He caught the nearest man by the collar and slung him back twenty feet.
“Quit it!” he shouted. “Haggarty! Chartrand! White! Let them alone, do you hear me?” In his anger he rose to heights of unsuspected eloquence and his words cut like whips. The men disentangled before his voice and hands. At the bottom Haggarty and Rough Shan, locked in a deadly grip, fought like bulldogs, each trying for room to apply the knee to the other’s stomach.
“Pull ’em apart!” Joe ordered sharply, and unwilling hands did so. They cursed each other with deep hatred. Their vocabularies were much on a par and highly unedifying.
“That’ll do, Haggarty!” Joe rasped. “McCane, you shut your dirty mouth and get out of here.”
“You—” McCane began venomously.
“Don’t say it,” Joe warned him. “Clear out!”
“A dozen of ye to two!” cried McCane. “If I had ye alone, Kent, I’d put ye acrost me knee!”
“Come to my camp any night this week and I’ll take you with the gloves,” said Joe. “If you want a scrap for all hands bring your crew with you. Now, boys, get back on the job. We’ve wasted enough time. These men are going.”
He turned away, and the men scattered unwillingly to their several employments. Rough Shan and Callahan, left alone, hesitated, shouted a few perfunctory curses, and finally tramped off. But every one who knew them knew also that this was only the beginning.