“Merle Farnsworth is my daughter; your vile and debauched son dared to insult her, and so he died—rightly died. Yes, at my hands—I take full responsibility. And I am glad to tell you this before you follow him out of the world. Tonight, Ben Thurston, you go over this cliff—you die the death you gave to my sister.” As he spoke, Don Manuel cast loose his Spanish cloak, and dropped both it and his sombrero to the ground. Thurston at last staggered to his feet. “So get ready now to fight for your life,” Don Manuel resumed, folding his arms across his breast as he surveyed his victim. “But I am unarmed,” cried Thurston, pointing to the revolver at the other’s belt. His outstretched hand trembled, his voice was a terrified shriek. “Then I, too, shall be unarmed,” replied Don Manuel, as he unbuckled his belt and tossed it lightly from him. “Come along, then—it is man to man with naked hands.” His tone now was one of concentrated passion and hate, and he advanced with arms extended for an enfolding embrace. Now did Ben Thurston realize that his only chance for life lay in his superior weight, possibly his superior strength. At the thought, craven fear changed of a sudden to the courage of desperation, and like a wild cat he leaped at the throat of his adversary. Then began a terrible struggle—two strong men writhing in each other’s grip like savage beasts. Soon their clothes were torn, their bodies begrimed with sweat and mud, their faces and naked arms bespattered with blood, for Ben Thurston’s nose had been broken in one of the first falls. Thurston, besides his extra pounds, had also the advantage of being younger by a few years. But Don Manuel was in better physical condition and his muscles were like bands of steel. So it was pretty much of a level match in this grim fight to the death. 0305 As they tugged at each other, as each attempted to bear the other down or trip and throw him, as at times, each tried in their locked embrace to crush in his adversary’s ribs and squeeze the last breath out of his body, as they milled round and round, swayed and fell and rolled over and then for a moment regained a kneeling or an upright position—both men realized that it was the one who could last the longest with whom the mastery would rest. Pierre Luzon, running up the trail, came to the edge of the open space where the desperate contest was in progress. But the onlooker did not attempt to interfere—he had had his orders; he just crouched and watched the swaying, writhing figures. For an hour or more the fight proceeded, at times fast and furious, with breathing spells to follow, during which grips were tenaciously maintained. Points of advantage alternated now to the one side, now to the other, but after each succeeding tussle both combatants were exhausted without victory being pronounced for either. Every vestige of clothing above the belt line had long since been torn away, and they were sweating like lathered horses.