The engineer pointed to a huge, swarthy man approaching across the clearing in which the camp was situated. “That's him,” he replied. And without further ado, Bryce strode to meet his man.
“Are you Jules Rondeau?” he demanded as he came up to the woods-boss. The latter nodded. “I'm Bryce Cardigan,” his interrogator announced, “and I'm here to thrash you for chopping that big redwood tree over in that little valley where my mother is buried.”
“Oh!” Rondeau smiled. “Wiz pleasure, M'sieur.” And without a moment's hesitation he rushed. Bryce backed away from him warily, and they circled.
“When I get through with you, Rondeau,” Bryce said distinctly, “it'll take a good man to lead you to your meals. This country isn't big enough for both of us, and since you came here last, you've got to go first.”
Bryce stepped in, feinted for Rondeau's jaw with his right, and when the woods-boss quickly covered, ripped a sizzling left into the latter's midriff. Rondeau grunted and dropped his guard, with the result that Bryce's great fists played a devil's tattoo on his countenance before he could crouch and cover.
“This is a tough one,” thought Bryce. His blows had not, apparently, had the slightest effect on the woods-boss. Crouched low and with his arms wrapped around his head, Rondeau still came on unfalteringly, and Bryce was forced to give way before him; to save his hands, he avoided the risk of battering Rondeau's hard head and sinewy arms.
Already word that the woods-boss was battling with a stranger had been shouted into the camp dining room, and the entire crew of that camp, abandoning their half-finished meal, came pouring forth to view the contest. Out of the tail of his eye Bryce saw them coming, but he was not apprehensive, for he knew the code of the woodsman: “Let every man roll his own hoop.” It would be a fight to a finish, for no man would interfere; striking, kicking, gouging, biting, or choking would not be looked upon as unsportsmanlike; and as Bryce backed cautiously away from the huge, lithe, active, and powerful man before him, he realized that Jules Rondeau was, as his father had stated, “top dog among the lumberjacks.”
Rondeau, it was apparent, had no stomach for Bryce's style of combat. He wanted a rough-and-tumble fight and kept rushing, hoping to clinch; if he could but get his great hands on Bryce, he would wrestle him down, climb him, and finish the fight in jig-time. But a rough-and-tumble was exactly what Bryce was striving to avoid; hence when Rondeau rushed, Bryce side-stepped and peppered the woodsman's ribs. But the woods-crew, which by now was ringed around them, began to voice disapproval of this style of battle.
“Clinch with him, dancing-master,” a voice roared.
“Tie into him, Rondeau,” another shouted.