“Come, boy,” he threatened, as the lad kept a tight-lipped silence, “what have yer got ter say fer yerself?” The burly soldier’s awful grip tightened on Tom’s shoulder. His five fingers seemed to sink like daggers into the boy’s flesh. Pain shot all through Tom, and a sudden passion of rage filled his every vein. The anger and the pain together gave him a fierce impulse, backed by double his usual strength. Fagan held him by the left shoulder, but quickly clenching his right fist, he rammed it into the soldier’s stomach with great violence. Powerful as he was, Fagan’s grip was torn loose; and, despite himself, he staggered back, with the wind half knocked out of him. “I’ll skin yer alive!” he wheezed, holding his midriff and frantically trying to regain his wind. By this time, word had spread within the Turtle that some sort of a fight was shaping up outside. A mixed crowd of soldiers, trappers, traders and half-breeds--about a dozen in all--came tumbling out the door, eager for the expected excitement. “What goes on here?” asked a chunky, heavily-bearded trapper, dressed in a fringed buckskin suit. “Fagan’s ketched the young sprout what heaved him in the swamp,” explained the man Pete. “He’s goin’ ter give him a goin’ over.” “Aw shucks, Pat,” protested the trapper, “he’s only a kid. Don’t use him up!” “Now jest keep yer big beak outen this, Sandy!” retorted the vengeful Pat, who had by this time recovered his breath. “Sandy’s right,” broke in another of the crowd. “He’s jest a young gaffer. Tain’t sportin’ to smash him up.” “Be fair, Pat!” yelled someone else. “Keep yer blabs shut, every last man of yuh!” bellowed Fagan, doubly enraged by this interference. “Well, if ye must play the bully,” went on the trapper known as Sandy, “go over yonder an’ fight, aside the shanty, where there’s a good bit more room.” Fagan turned and stripped off his flannel shirt. His huge, hairy arms and his big, knotted hands looked dangerous. “I kin give him all the fight he kin swaller right har,” he snarled. “’Fraid if I give him more room, he’ll turn tail an’ run.” Fagan had a deeper reason, in truth, for wanting to fight in the narrow space between the door of the Turtle and the swamp. He was banking on a quick, rough-and-tumble scuffle, and he knew, full well, that his extra weight, in close quarters, would give him a better chance. He was smart enough to realize that his wind wouldn’t be nearly as good as the younger, leaner, clean-muscled Tom’s; and the narrow, cramped space would tend to give him added advantage. But the watching crowd overruled big Pat on that score. “Ye may as well give in, Pat,” urged his crony, Pete. Now the whole crowd moved over. Tom, stripped down the way Fagan was, had a determined fire in his blue eyes. “Don’t fret, Ben,” he said to his brother, whose face was white and drawn, “I think I can take his measure.”