Again the interest centered upon the two big men who faced each other on the trodden ground of the clearing. Other men came-the ones who had fled from the rollway, their curiosity conquering their fear at the sight of the dead man.

And now the greener was speaking, and the tone of his voice was gentle in its velvety softness. His lips smiled, and his gray eyes, narrowed to slits, shone cold-with a terrible, steely coldness, so that men looked once, and shuddered as they looked.

“And, now, Moncrossen,” he was saying, “we will fight. It is a long score that you and I have to settle. It starts with your dirty schemes that Stromberg wouldn’t touch.

“Then, the well-laid plan to have Creed bump me off that night at Melton’s N; and the incident of the river, when you broke the jam. You thought you had me, then, Moncrossen. You thought I was done for good and all, when I disappeared under the water.

“There are other things, too-little acts of yours, that we will figure in as we go. The affair on Broken Knee, when you attacked this young girl; the shooting of Blood River Jack, from ambush; the second attack on the girl at the foot of the rapid-and the brutal starving of Wa-ha-ta-na-ta.

“Oh, yes; and the little matter of the bird’s-eye. I have the logs, Moncrossen, all safely cached-the pile of ashes you found was a blind. Quite a long score, take it first and last, isn’t it, Moncrossen?”

The silence, save for the sound of the voice, was almost painful. Men strained to listen, looking from one to the other of the two big men, with white, tense faces.

At the words, the blood rushed to the boss’s face. His little, swinish eyes fairly blazed in their sockets. He was speechless with fury. The cords knotted in his neck, and a great blue vein stood out upon his forehead. The breath hissed through his clenched teeth as the goading words fell in the voice of purring softness.

“But it has come to a show-down at last, between you and me,” the greener went on as he slowly and methodically turned the sleeves of his shirt back from his mighty forearms. “They tell me you are a fighting man, Moncrossen. They tell me you have licked men-here in the woods-good men, too. And they tell me you have knocked down drunken men, and stamped on their faces with your steel-calked boots.

“Maybe-if you last well-I will save a couple of punches for those poor devils’ account. I think you will last, Moncrossen. You are big, and strong, and you are mad enough, in your blind, bull-headed way.

“But I am not going to knock you out. I am going to make you lie down-to make you show your yellow, and quit cold; for this is going to be your last fight. When I am through, Moncrossen, you won’t be worth licking-no ten-year-old boy will think it worth his while to step out of his way to slap your dirty face.”

With a hoarse bellow, Moncrossen launched himself at the speaker. And just at that moment-swarming over the bank at the rollways-came the men of the upper drive. The leaders paused, and sizing up the situation, came on at a run.

“A fight!” they yelled. “A fight! H-o-o-r-a-y!”

Then came Appleton and Sheridan with their wives, and beside them walked a slender, girlish figure, whose shoulders drooped wearily, and whose face was concealed by a heavy, dark-blue veil.

The two lumbermen guided the ladies hurriedly in the direction of the office, when suddenly the shrill voice of Charlie Manton broke upon their ears.

“Whoo-p-e-e! It’s Bill! Go to it, Bill! Swing on him! Give him your left, Bill! Give him your left!”

They halted, and obeying some strange impulse, the girlish figure turned and made straight for the wildly yelling men, who stood in the form of a great circle in the center of which two men weaved and milled about each other in a blur of motion.

Old Daddy Dunnigan was the first to see her hovering uncertainly upon the edge of the crowd. Brandishing his crutch he howled into the ears of those nearest him:

“Give th’ lady a chanst! Come on, miss! He’s her man, an’ God be praised! she wants to see ’um foight!”

The men made a lane, and scarcely knowing what she did, Ethel found herself standing beside the old Irishman, who had wormed his way to the very front rank of the crowding circle. She stared in fascinated terror, throwing back her veil for a clearer view, regardless of the men who stared at her in surprise and wondered at the whiteness of her face.

Bill Carmody met Moncrossen’s first rush with a quick, short jab that reached the corner of his eye. With an almost imperceptible movement he leaned to one side, and the flail-like swing of the huge boss’s arm passed harmlessly within an inch of his ear.

Moncrossen lost no time. Pivoting, he swung a terrific body blow which glanced lightly against Bill’s lowered shoulder, and the greener came back with two stiff raps to the ear.

Again and again Moncrossen rushed his antagonist, lashing out with both fists, but always the blows failed by a barely perceptible margin, and Bill-always smiling, and without appreciable effort-stung him with short, swift punches to the face.

And always he talked. Low and smooth his voice sounded between the thud of blows and the heavy breathing of the big boss.

“Poor business, Moncrossen-poor judgment-for a fighting man. Save your wind-take it easy, and you’ll last longer-this is a long fight, Moncrossen-take it slow-slow and steady.”

The taunting voice was always in the boss’s ears, goading him to blind fury. He paused for breath, with guard uplifted, and in that moment Bill Carmody saw for the first time the figure of his wife. For an instant their eyes met, and then Moncrossen was at him again. But Bill’s low, taunting voice did not waver.

“That’s better,” he said, and moved his head to one side as a vicious blow passed close. “And now, Moncrossen, I’m going to hit you on the nose-I haven’t hit you yet-those others were just to feel you out.”

With an incredibly swift movement he swung clear from the shoulder. There was the wicked, smashing sound of living flesh hard struck. The big boss staggered backward, pawing the air, and the red blood spurted from his flattened nose.

“That one is for trying to get Stromberg to file a link.” Bill ducked a lunging blow without raising his guard. “And now your ear, Moncrossen; I won’t knock it off, but it will never be pretty again.”

Another long swing landed with a glancing twist that split the ear in half. “That is for the Creed item-and this one is for the river.”

The boss’s head snapped backward to the impact of a smashing blow; again he staggered, and, turning, spat a mouthful of blood which seeped into the ground, leaving upon the surface several brownish, misshapen nuggets.

“God!” breathed a man, and turned away. “It’s his teeth!”

The yelling had ceased and men stared white faced. This was not the fighting they were used to; they understood only the quick, frenzied fighting of fury, where men pummel each other in blind rage, fighting close-as tigers fight-gouging and biting one another as they roll upon the ground locked in each other’s grip.

The men gazed in awe, with a strange, unspoken terror creeping into their hearts, upon the vicious battering blows, the coldly gleaming eyes and smiling lips of the man who fought, not in any fume of passion, but deliberately, smoothly, placing his terrific blows at will with a cold, deadly accuracy that smashed and tore.

Moncrossen rushed again.

“And now for the other things,” Bill continued; “the attacks upon the defenseless girl-the attempted murder from ambush-and the starving of an old woman.”

Blow followed blow, until in the crowd men cried out sharply, and those who had watched a hundred fights turned away white lipped.

Moncrossen fought blindly now. His eyes were closed and his face one solid mass of blood. And still the blows fell. Smash! Smash! Smash! It was horrible-those deliberate, tearing blows, and the lips that smiled in cold, savage cruelty.

No blow landed on the point of the jaw, on the neck, on the heart, or the pit of the stomach-blows that bring the quiet of oblivion; but each landed with a cutting twist that ground into the flesh.

At last, with his face beaten to a crimson pulp, Moncrossen sagged to his knees, tried to rise, and crashed limp and lifeless to the ground. And over him stood Bill Carmody, smiling down at the broken and battered wreck of the bad man of the logs.

Gradually the circle that surrounded the fighters broke into little groups of white-faced, silent men who shot nervous, inquiring glances into each other’s faces and swore softly under their breath-the foolish, meaningless oaths of excitement.

Minutes passed as Ethel stood gazing in terrible fascination from the big man to the thing on the ground at his feet. And as she looked, a hideous old squaw, apparently too weak to stand, struggled from her place of vantage among the feet of the men, and crawled to the limp, sprawled form.

Leaning close she peered into the shapeless features, crooning and gurgling, and emitting short, sharp whines of delight. Her beady eyes glittered wickedly, like the eyes of a snake, and the withered lips curled into a horrid grin, exposing the purple snag-toothed gums.

Suddenly the bent form knelt upright, the skeleton arms raised high above the tangle of gray-black hair, the thin, high-pitched voice quavered the words of a weird chant, the clawlike fingers twitched in short, jerky spasms, and the emaciated body swayed and weaved to the wild, barbaric rhythm of the chanted curse.

Terrible, blighting, the words were borne to the ears of the girl. Bearded men looked, listened, and turned away, shuddering. The sun burst suddenly through a rift in the flying clouds, and his golden radiance fell incongruously upon the scene.

Ethel gazed as at some horrid phantasm-the rough men with gaudy shirts of red and blue and multicolored checks, standing in groups with tense, set faces-the other man-her man-standing alone, silent and smiling, by the side of his blood-bathed victim, and the old crone, whose marcid form writhed in the swing of the thin-shrieked chant.

And then before she sensed that he had moved he stood before her. She raised her eyes to his in which the hard, cold gleam had given place to a look of intense longing, of infinite love, and the long-pent yearning of a soul.

He stretched his arms toward her and she saw that the bruised and swollen hands were stained with blood. Suddenly she realized that this man was her husband. A sickening fear overcame her, and she shrank, shuddering, from the touch of the blood-smeared hands.

A look of terror came into her face; she covered her eyes with her hands as if to shut out the horror of it all, and, turning, fled blindly-she knew not where.

As she ran there still sounded in her ears the words of the high, thin chant-the blighting curse of Yaga Tah.