“It's a fair match,” cried another, “and the red one picked on the main push. He was looking for a fight, an' he ought to get it; but these fancy fights don't suit me. Flop him, stranger, flop him.”
“Rondeau can't catch him,” a fourth man jeered. “He's a foot-racer, not a fighter.”
Suddenly two powerful hands were placed between Bryce's shoulders, effectually halting his backward progress; then he was propelled violently forward until he collided with Rondeau. With a bellow of triumph, the woods-boss's gorilla-like arms were around Bryce, swinging him until he faced the man who had forced him into that terrible grip. This was no less a personage than Colonel Seth Pennington, and it was obvious he had taken charge of what he considered the obsequies.
“Stand back, you men, and give them room,” he shouted. “Rondeau will take care of him now. Stand back, I say. I'll discharge the man that interferes.”
With a heave and a grunt Rondeau lifted his antagonist, and the pair went crashing to the earth together, Bryce underneath. And then something happened. With a howl of pain, Rondeau rolled over on his back and lay clasping his left wrist in his right hand, while Bryce scrambled to his feet.
“The good old wrist-lock does the trick,” he announced; and stooping, he grasped the woods-boss by the collar with his left hand, lifted him, and struck him a terrible blow in the face with his right. But for the arm that upheld him, Rondeau would have fallen. To have him fall, however, was not part of Bryce's plan. Jerking the fellow toward him, he passed his arm around Rondeau's neck, holding the latter's head as in a vise with the crook of his elbow. And then the battering started. When it was finished, Bryce let his man go, and Rondeau, bloody, sobbing, and semi-conscious, sprawled on the ground.
Bryce bent over him. “Now, damn you,” he roared, “who felled that tree in Cardigan's Redwoods?”
“I did, M'sieur. Enough—I confess!” The words were a whisper.
“Did Colonel Pennington suggest it to you?”
“He want ze burl. By gar, I do not want to fell zat tree—”