He hissed out the word with sibilant wrath, and threw off his light coat. Then, trembling the least bit while fighting inwardly for calm, he began rolling back his sleeves. He ceased these preparations long enough to toss his hat upon his coat and discard tie and collar. Marston cast another hungry look at the revolver, while making no move to comply with the order he had received. Glenning came towards him.
"Are you going to fight, or must I slap your face, you dog?"
The concluding word gave Marston a happy thought, and he quickly pursed his heavy lips, and whistled shrilly. He had no mind for an encounter with the young man where the weapons employed would be fists alone. He was probably stronger, but he secretly felt that he would be punished severely should they come to blows. He had much rather that his boar-hound fight for him, so he issued the summons.
"No more of that!" said John, sternly. "Make another sound and I strike you, whether you are prepared or not. Are you coming, or shall I break a switch from one of your bushes, and lay you across my knee?"
This taunt was more than flesh and blood could bear. It pierced even Marston's seared sensibilities, and stung like something hot. He got out of his coat with one lightning-like movement, and at once assumed the offensive. This was what Glenning wished. It would have been degrading to knock down and batter about some one who made no resistance. The men presented an interesting contrast as they stood on guard. Glenning wore a white negligee shirt, and gray trousers, neatly creased. He was clean shaven and his straight black hair fell over his forehead as he leaned forward, alert and vigilant. One could see now the broad expanse of his back and his wonderful breadth of shoulders. Marston at home was not the Marston in town. He wore a sort of gray flannel shirt, carelessly buttoned, shapeless corduroy trousers and rusty shoes. His thick neck was corded and hairy, and there were dry, red veins in his cheeks caused by the excessive use of liquor. He came at his opponent carefully, in spite of his anger, and delivered his first blow so swiftly that Glenning only partially succeeded in parrying it. The big fist slid off his arm and caught him on the shoulder, turning him half way around. He responded at once with a side swing, which Marston avoided. He was remarkably quick on his feet for so heavy a man. Then they circled, warily. Suddenly Glenning let drive from the shoulder. It was an unexpected move, and caught Marston unprepared. A row of hard knuckles lodged against his chin and sent him reeling. The trunk of a cedar tree intervened, and he did not fall. His face was awful as he came on again; enough to unnerve the strongest man. But Glenning had found himself. He was calm now, and confident, Marston was raging, blind mad. He struck out wildly, trusting to brute strength. Again Glenning's long arm straightened, and for a moment the breath left the chest of his antagonist. He staggered, and dropped his guard, but Glenning did not follow up. Marston, with an inarticulate cry of rage, sought to close. He no longer attempted to fight as boxers do, but came with outstretched hands, feeling blindly for his foe. There was no mercy in the heart of the iron-faced man fronting him. A third time Glenning struck, and his fist caught Marston over the eye, crumpling him on the grass like a thing of reed. He did not move. John knelt and leaned over him. His eyes were shut, but he was breathing, spasmodically. Glenning arose.
"This is for the pain you caused her, and for the lies you told on me!" he muttered. He walked to the spot where he had thrown his clothing and put the various articles on. As he finished this he saw a negro in the side yard. "Come here!" he called.
The negro obeyed.
"There's your master. He's hurt, but not badly. Carry him in and pour water on his face and give him some whiskey."
Glenning wheeled, picked up the pearl-handled revolver as he passed, and went on towards the road.