But the coldness of the water served to quickly clear the mind of the befuddled fellow, driving the liquor fumes almost instantly from his head. With a wild howl of rage he clambered instantly to his feet in the shallows. The glittering knife had been lost in the dark, swamp water in the course of his violent fall. But now he leaped forward, savage as a forest panther, and with his great hamlike fists swinging dangerously. By this time, however, Bill Brown had wheeled about. A single, sweeping glance told him the story. With a swift movement of his right arm he reached inside his hunting-shirt. From an under-arm holster he drew forth a short-barreled pistol of heavy caliber, known on the border as a derringer. “Halt in yer tracks, Pat Fagan!” he commanded, leveling the weapon with great speed. Ben and Tom were startled by the change in the big frontiersman. All the kindliness and gentleness were gone from his voice, which now had the sharp, fierce crack of a pistol-shot. “Don’t tell me what ter do, Brown!” raged the charging ruffian; but nevertheless he came to an abrupt halt. Stock-still he stood, dripping and muddy, the picture of impotent wrath, clenching and unclenching his big fists convulsively. And his face was ugly to see. All his evil passions, to be thwarted thus by a mere boy, flared forth upon it. Seldom had his heart been torn by so murderous an anger. Furthermore, it was past endurance to be held in this fashion at the point of a pistol. Black rage swelled the veins of his face. His hand stole toward his hip pocket. “Keep yer hands up, Fagan, er I shoot!” ordered Brown grimly. “Now, Tom, jest step up an’ relieve him o’ that pocket-gun. Ah, that’s a spry lad. An’ now, sojur, jest tuck yer tail atween yer legs, so to speak, an’ slink off to the garrison.” A fresh flood of rage swept over the fuming trooper. His eyes glowed hotly. But he knew full well that Bill Brown meant all that he said; and he was wise enough to hold his fearful passion in check. With a mighty effort he gained his self-control. A sneer replaced the black wrath in his swarthy face. “I kin bide my time, Brown,” he warned icily, “but don’t think I’m a goin’ ter fergit the dirt yuh once done me.” “Meanin’, I s’pose, the time I put a damper on the swindle you was tryin’ to work on that pore ol’ trader.” “Mark my words,” continued Fagan, disregarding the accusation, “I’ll have yer mangy hide some day. An’ that goes, likewise, fer the young squirt har that shoved me in the muck.” “Talk’s cheap, Fagan,” retorted Bill Brown. “You have to ketch a fox afore you kin skin him, you know.” “Oh, I’ll do it, Brown. I’m strong enuff fer it, an’ I don’t know of any law in these yar parts that’ll keep me from it.”