Consciously Bob Bainbridge stepped back a pace or two, and rested one hand on the shoulder of Moose. He was breathing hard, and the reaction from the stress and strain of vigorous fighting made him feel limp and unsteady.
No hint of this appeared on the surface. With cold, unemotional eyes he watched three or four men pick up the unconscious Schaeffer and carry him back to the tent.
Some of the men stood staring curiously, but the majority had gathered about a brawny youngster, handsome in a physical way, with bold blue eyes, a thatch of tawny yellow curls, and a reckless, dare-devil manner. He was one of those who had been readiest to take Schaeffer’s part, and now, as he turned toward Bainbridge, followed by a dozen or more of his companions, Bob was conscious of a sudden, curious sense of familiarity with the boy’s face. For a second he thought it simply the result of a rather good memory. This was his first sight of Schaeffer’s river gang but it was quite possible he had run across the rather striking youngster at some other time or place.
Curiously, yet—impassively, he watched the latter approach. There was a devil-may-care impudence in the very swing of his lithe, muscular body. When he came to a stop before the lumberman, hat stuck rakishly on one side of that yellow thatch, and hands resting lightly on his slim hips, his whole manner was one of such cool arrogance that Bob’s eyes narrowed, and the angry blood began to tingle again through his veins.
“Look here,” said the fellow insolently, “that was one dirty trick you played on Pete, and you’re goin’ to pay for it. Do you know what we’re goin’ to do?”
“Yes!” flamed Bainbridge, in a voice which made more than one husky river hog start nervously. “I do! You’re going down to that jam on the jump—and work! Get me? I mean real work, too, and not an imitation of kids playing. Thanks to a crooked drive boss the logs are hung up where no drive ever hung before. If you’d been half-way men you’d never have let such a thing happen.”
“By cripes!” roared the blond furiously, leaping at Bob, “there ain’t a man livin’ as can talk like that to me an’ git away with it. Why, you city dude, I’m going to show you that you can’t——”
“Cut that!”
Bainbridge suddenly loosened his grip on the Indian’s shoulder, and thrust his face squarely into the young fellow’s, until scarcely six inches separated them. He said not another word, but something blazed in his black eyes which presently sent the lids fluttering down over the blue ones, and brought a touch of dull scarlet flaming dully beneath the deeply tanned skin. It was simply the force of a stronger nature, a nature untroubled by brag and bluster which imposes its will on others by sheer strength of character.
The instant the silent duel had ended, Bob flung back his head and glanced again at the puzzled, waiting throng of men.