“Well, men,” he said in a voice which reached like cold steel into the far corners of the enclosure, “court is open. The first case is Jan Torta and his brother Mikel against Bill Sheedy, whom they accuse of stealing ninety-eight dollars from them while they slept.”
As he spoke the names two young Slavs, clumsy but strongly built, their heavy faces for once alight with hate and desire for revenge, pushed close to one side of the ring, while on the other side a huge red-haired Celt, bloated and evil of face, stepped free of the crowd.
“Bill stole the money, all right,” continued Reivers, without looking at any of them. “He had the chance, and being a sneak thief by nature he took it. That’s all right. The Torta boys had the money; now Bill’s got it. The question is: Is Bill man enough to keep it? That’s what we’re going to settle now. He’s got to show that he’s a better man than the two fellows he took the money from. If he isn’t, he’s got to give up the money, or the two can have him to do what they want to with him. All right, boys; get ’em started there.”
At his brisk order four men whom Toppy had seen around camp as guards stepped forward, two to Sheedy, two to the Torta brothers, and proceeded first to search them for weapons, next to strip them to the waist. Sheedy hung back.
“Not two av um tuh wanst, Mr. Reivers?” he asked humbly. “One after deh udder it oughta be; two tuh wanst, that ain’t no way.”
“And why not, Bill?” asked Reivers gently. “You took it from both of them, didn’t you? Then keep it against both of ’em, Bill. Throw ’em in there, boys!”
Toppy looked around at the rows of eager faces that were pressing toward the ringside. Prize-fights he had witnessed by the score. He had even participated in one or two for a lark, and the brute lust that springs into the eyes of spectators was no stranger to him. But never had he seen anything like this. There was none of the restraint imposed upon the human countenance by civilisation in the fierce faces that gathered about this ring.
Out of the dull eyes the primitive killing-animal showed unrestrained, unashamed. No dilettante interest in strength or skill here; merely the bare bloodthirsty desire to see a fellow-animal fight and bleed. Up above, the sky was clean and blue; the rough log walls shut out the rest of the world; the breathing of a mob of excited men was the only sound upon the quiet Sunday air. It was the old arena again; the merciless, gore-hungry crowd; the maddened gladiators; and upon the chair on the table, Reivers, lord of it all, the king-man, to whom it was all but an idle moment’s play.
Reivers, above it all, untouched by it all, and yet directing and swaying it all as his will listed. Laws, rules, teachings, creeds—all were discarded. Primitive force had for the nonce been given back its rule. And over it, and controlling it, as well as each of the maddened eight-score men around the ring—Reivers.
And so thoroughly did Reivers dominate the whole affair that Toppy, sitting carelessly on the edge of the table, was conscious of it, and knew that he, too, felt instinctively inclined to do as the men did—to look to Reivers for a sign before daring to speak or make a move. The Snow-Burner was in the saddle. It wasn’t natural, but every phase of the situation emanated from his master-man’s will. It was even his wish that Toppy should sit thus at his feet and look on, and his wish was gratified.