Accustomed by this time to the dim light, the crowd was swirling rapidly through the door, and in the outgoing tide went Jac. The same confusion which made a hell of the dance-hall reigned in the open air. But there was more space to maneuver, and Jac gathered her gown up high and slipped through the crowd to the place at which Carrigan had tethered his horse. She caught the pommel and swung up to the saddle like a man. There was a sickening sound of ripping and tearing. The green gown was hopelessly done for. She gave no thought to it, and landing astride in the saddle--a position which completed the ruin of the dress--she gave the horse his head and drove forward with a shout like that of a drunken cow-puncher. And she was truly intoxicated with triumph. The men of her choice fought for her in the dance-hall. They were her knights battling for the smile of their lady. To one of them would go the victory, but hers was all the glory. She shouted at the coming dawn and urged the horse into a faster run. The wind caught at her face and whistled sharply past her ears--the song of victory! No delay for the fording of the river! She took it on the run, splashed from head to foot with mud and water. She did not care. The gown was a wreck. Her hair tumbled down her shoulders. But she reached the further bank and drove on at a gallop, shouting like one of the Valkyrie. * * * * * A battle of giants waged in the dance-hall, where Maurie Gordon and Carrigan raged back and forth, sometimes standing at arm’s length and slugging with both hands, sometimes grappling and punching at close range, sometimes rolling over and over on the floor and fighting every inch of the way. If the great arms of Maurie gave him an advantage in the open fighting, the venomous agility of Carrigan evened matters when they came to close quarters. Dave Carey drew himself up to a sitting posture with both hands pressed over his mid-ribs while he watched the conflict. Ben Craig leaned against the wall, sick and white of face. Through his swollen eyes he could barely make out the twisting figures. And still they slugged and smashed with a noble will, until, missing a swing at the same time, they were thrown to the floor by the wasted force of their own blows and sat staring stupidly at one another. The growing daylight made them quite visible now. It showed two battered countenances. It showed equally torn clothes. “Where’s Jacqueline?” cried Maurie. “Gone!” cried Carrigan, and started to his feet. Gordon followed suit, but slowly. He was badly hurt in both body and mind. The two heroes stared at each other. “Done for!” groaned Dave Carey from the distance. “Stung!” sighed feeble Ben Craig. “Beat!” growled Maurie. “Roped!” said Carrigan. “Fellers,” said Carey, struggling to his feet, and still caressing his injured ribs, “I got an idea we better see that Fifth Avenue swell before we do more fightin’.”