Donald did not answer. Gillis spoke to Andy in an undertone.
“My God, Donnie, ’e’s twice your size! Don’t fight ’im!” implored Andy.
“I’ll kill him!” rasped Donald.
Gillis seized his arm. “Let me fix the d—— skunk; he’s nearer my size.”
“No, this is my affair!” shaking himself from the grasp.
The sound of a paddle came from below, and the trapper sprang from his dugout and came swiftly up the hill. As Andy briefly explained the situation the old man’s grey eyes narrowed to mere slits beneath the shaggy brows.
“Ah!” he breathed. “Me and ‘Betsey’,” patting his six-shooter, “we likes to shoot up bohunks. We shoots them in the heel so’s to save their clothes.” His mouth was set in a grim smile, a smile that was belied by the steely look in his deep-set eyes. He seated himself on a log and placed his gun on his knees.
Donald had by this divested himself of coat and shirt and now stepped forward dressed in light cotton trousers, a sleeveless undershirt and moccasins. “Hand,” he said in a steady voice, “this is between you and me. See to it that your men do not interfere; I will vouch for mine.”
The big foreigner was rubbing his big hands as though in pleased anticipation. “I suppose you know how we iss goin’ to fight? Everything goes, you know.” His grin was fiendish.
Donald knew what was meant. There were to be no rules of combat; no time duration; no referee; no rounds, and woe to the man who should go down. It was to be a battle as of primeval man. It might result in terrible injury and mutilation. He sickened at the thought.