“Never mind, now,” answered Hardy, turning austerely to the bluff. “I guess I can take care of myself.”
He swung about and advanced to the stretch of level sand where Swope was standing. “What guarantee do I get,” he demanded sharply, “that if I lick you in a fair fight the sheep will go around?”
“You––lick––me!” repeated the sheepman, showing his jagged teeth in a sardonic grin. “Well, I’ll tell ye, Willie; if you hit me with that lily-white hand of yourn, and I find it out the same day, I’ll promise to stay off’n your range for a year.”
“All right,” replied Hardy, suddenly throwing away his hat. “You noticed it when I hit you before, didn’t you?” he inquired, edging quickly in on his opponent and beginning an amazing bout of shadow boxing. “Well, come on, then!” He laughed as Swope struck out at him, and continued his hectoring banter. “As I remember it your head hit the ground before your heels!”
Then in a whirlwind of blows and feints they came together. It was the old story of science against brute strength. Jasper Swope was a rough-and-tumble fighter of note; he was quick, too, in spite of his weight, and his blows were like the strokes of a sledge; but Hardy did not attempt to stand up against him. For the first few minutes it was more of a chase than 461 a fight, and in that the sheepman was at his worst, cumbered by his wet clothes and the water in his shoes. Time and again he rushed in upon his crouching opponent, who always seemed in the act of delivering a blow and yet at the moment only sidestepped and danced away. The hard wet sand was ploughed and trampled with their tracks, the records of a dozen useless plunges, when suddenly instead of dodging Hardy stepped quickly forward, his “lily-white hand” shot out, and Jasper Swope’s head went back with a jerk.
“You son-of-a-goat!” he yelled, as the blood ran down his face, and lowering his head he bored in upon Hardy furiously. Once more Hardy sidestepped, but the moment his enemy turned he flew at him like a tiger, raining blows upon his bloody face in lightning succession.
“Huh!” grunted the sheepman, coughing like a wood-chopper as he struck back through the storm, and the chance blow found its mark. For a moment Hardy staggered, clutching at his chest; but as Swope sprang forward to finish his work he ducked and slipped aside, stumbling like a man about to drop.
A shrill yell went up from the farther shore as Hardy stood swaying in his tracks, and a fierce shout of warning from the bluff; but Jasper Swope was implacable. Brushing the blood from his eyes he stepped deliberately forward and aimed a blow that 462 would have felled an ox, straight at his enemy’s head. It missed; the drooping head snapped down like Judy before Punch and rose up again, truculently; then before the sheepman could regain his balance Hardy threw his whole strength into a fierce uppercut that laid Swope sprawling on his back.
A howl of triumph and derision rose up from the rim of the bluff as the burly sheepman went down, but it changed to a sudden shout of warning as he scrambled back to his feet again. There was something indescribably vengeful about him as he whirled upon his enemy, and his hand went inside his torn shirt in a gesture not to be mistaken.