There was no time to speak. Eaton flew at him again, his head down, and for the second time Caleb landed him on his back. Then the judge intervened.
“That’s enough,� he said dryly. “I reckon he needed it, but he’s got it. Get up, Jacob, and keep quiet.�
But Jacob would not; he got up to his feet again and made a rush forward, only to find himself clasped tight in Aaron Todd’s strong arms.
“Be quiet,� said Todd, “you’ll go down again like a sack of salt, you idiot! You’re too full of booze to risk a blow on your solar plexis.�
Eaton swore. “Let me go,� he said, “do you think I’ll take it from that fellow? You’re a prize-fighter!� he added between his teeth, lowering at Trench, and wriggling helplessly in Aaron’s arms, “you’re a common prize-fighter; if you were a gentleman you’d settle it with pistols!�
“Tut, tut!� said the judge.
“I will, if you like,� said Caleb coolly, his own wrath cooled by victory.
Jacob’s eyes flashed; he was a noted shot. “I’ll send some one to you later,� he said, the perspiration standing out on his forehead, as he wrenched himself from Todd’s arms.
“I’ve a mind to report you both to Judge Ladd,� said Judge Hollis, but his fiery old soul loved the smoke of battle.
Jacob, panting and disheveled, reached for his hat. “It will be to-morrow,� he said, “and with pistols—if you consent.�