When the two men faced each other at last they paused a moment, and their eyes met in a long look in which there was something more than mere hatred. In fact, an observer might have refused to believe that the look was one of hate. There was grim resolve and unwavering determination to settle an account of long standing. But, for a moment at least, there arose in King's heart a feeling of something like admiration for the embodiment of sheer brute strength that stood before him. King did not pause long enough to ask what lingered in the look McCartney gave him. He saw only that the tense seriousness that had darkened the face of McCartney was gradually giving place to the old sneer that had always played about one corner of his mouth—and the sight stung him to madness. He thought of Cherry McBain—he thought of the man whose life for two years had been one long curse to him—he thought of the woman who had died of a broken heart—and he stepped quickly and struck out at the sneering face before him.
The dawn in the east had spread upward from the horizon and filled the sky, still clouded, with a thin grey light. There was light enough, however, to make every movement easily discernible, and King watched his opponent from the beginning with an alertness that rendered him proof against any foul play. He was not going to be taken unawares, at any rate. If he were beaten it would be because he had matched himself against a better man.
Gradually the other men fell away from them and left the ground clear. McCartney's men had been driven back and were beaten. But friend and foe alike came round to watch what they rightly guessed was to be the last scene in a play that had been running for many weeks. Keith McBain himself stood off to one side, his face ashen white, his eyes set immovably upon the men who were settling once and for all, he hoped, not only their own accounts, but his as well. Old Gabe Smith stood directly behind King, calling out words of encouragement in his little piping voice, and totally oblivious to the existence of anyone else in the world.
For fully five minutes the two men walked cautiously about each other, striking out quickly but lightly, and stepping back immediately to recover themselves after each advance. Though the sneer never left McCartney's face, there was behind it a deep seriousness that expressed well the fact that he was fully conscious of the magnitude of the task before him. King's face was tense, set, terribly earnest.
Only once was there any interference from the bystanders. Mike Cheney, who had been an interested spectator during the whole struggle, pushed his way to the inner part of the circle of men and voiced a feeble protest. The men near him laughed and jostled him out of the way. He was content to remain where he was, though he no doubt felt there was something incongruous in the fact that when he looked round he was standing next to Hugh Hurley.
After some time had passed in which the men had remained wholly on the defensive, McCartney began to advance persistently against King, who stepped back out of reach whenever he found McCartney pressing him too closely. King's wary tactics were testing the patience of his opponent. With an agility that was surprising in a man of his size, he stepped about the enclosure, keeping just out of reach of McCartney, and starting forward, snapping out his left hand when an opportunity presented itself. His blows were not heavy, but he was reaching McCartney's face and body almost every time he struck. McCartney swung and lunged heavily every time he struck at King, but his blows were without control.
Growing impatient at last with following King from place to place, he closed quickly and seized King about the body. This time, however, he had misjudged his man. As he came forward King stepped in and met him with a blow from the shoulder that struck McCartney on the chin. His full weight was behind the blow and McCartney's head went back from the force of it. Then his arms went round King and he hung on dazedly in an attempt to gain a little more time for recovery. But King was determined to make his recovery as difficult as possible. With McCartney's full weight bearing him down, he sent half a dozen quick, short blows to the body that made his opponent gasp for breath.
But McCartney kept his hold and tightened it, so that King found himself in a grip that made striking impossible. It was just this situation that King had tried to avoid. He knew McCartney's strength was probably more than a match for his own, and he had hoped that he might be able to keep him at a distance. As he felt the powerful arms closing more and more tightly about him he struggled to break the hold. After a few moments, however, he knew that his efforts were in vain. McCartney had him in a grip that reduced his effectiveness and made any attempt to break it simply a waste of reserve strength. He locked his arms about McCartney's shoulders and threw his whole weight upon him. His change of tactics was so sudden that McCartney staggered for a moment under his weight, and in that moment King's foot shot out suddenly and the two men went to the ground together, locked in each other's arms. Once, twice, three times, they rolled over, each attempting to gain the advantage of position without success. Then suddenly they broke apart and scrambled to their feet again, crouching at opposite sides of the circle.
For some seconds the men faced each other without attacking, both apparently taking advantage of even a brief breathing spell. Those who were anxious for McCartney's defeat began to express their impatience at King's failure to assume the aggressive. McCartney was plainly weakening under the punishment that King was inflicting. The fact that his aggressive tactics had not already brought the fight to an end had taken the heart out of McCartney. The face that during the earlier stages of the struggle had borne a sneer was now painfully serious.
Even Hugh Hurley caught some of the excitement of the crowd as he saw that a well-directed aggressive on King's part would bring an end to the fight in a few minutes. Keith McBain's eyes were fixed upon King's face. Once or twice during the short lull in the struggle they exchanged glances. Keith McBain's heart sank within him, and he moved round to get closer to King. There was a look in King's eyes that he could not understand. When he found a place directly behind him he stepped in a little and put one hand on King's shoulder.