“I tell you not to do that again!” said Clayton, his tone rising. “And what will you do? Hey--you coward, what will you do? I’m in command here, ain’t I?” “I haven’t said you’re not, but I tell you not to do that again.” Some of the men rose, grinning; this was becoming interesting to them. “Give it to him, Molloy!” one of them sang out. Molloy pushed his fist against Clayton’s nose, this time so strongly that it brought blood, for Clayton’s nose was still sensitive and ready to bleed at a touch. The dripping of blood down on his shirt caused Clayton to turn white as a sheet; his eyes glittered with a sort of flash, and he clenched his fists. “You’re a bully and a coward,” he said, in a low, tense tone. “And if you think I’m afraid of you, or afraid to fight you, you’re mistaken.” He stepped back, and began slowly to take off his coat. His head was roaring in a queer way, and flecks of red seemed to shoot and dart before his eyes. The men gathered around, forming a ring, with the youths in the middle. “Slug him, Molloy!” said the one who had chipped in before. Molloy could hardly believe his eyes, when he saw that Clayton was coolly preparing to fight him. He sprang at him, but one of the men caught and held him. “Meet him fair,” he was adjured; “meet him fair!” “Oh, I’ll meet him fair!” Molloy snarled, really amazed by the discovery that he would have to fight; “and I’ll hammer him to a pulp.” He shook himself free of the man’s hands, and began to take off his own coat and roll up his sleeves. His arms were big and red, covered with freckles, and unpleasant looking. Clayton’s arms, as he bared them, were white as a girl’s, above the tan circles of his wrists; but, white as they were, they looked firm and hard and muscular. His face, too pale, did not show fear now, nor cowardice. “Now I’m ready for you!” he said quietly. “And here you git it!” howled Molloy, his anger flaming red in his freckled face. “Look out, for I’m coming!” He leaped and swung, thinking to knock Clayton down at a blow. To his surprise, Clayton side-stepped and dodged, so that the blow, meant for his face, went over his head. Then--crack! Clayton’s hard white fist fell full on the freckled face of the bully, and Molloy tumbled backward, and would have fallen if one of the outlaws had not caught him. Molloy was dazed by that blow; but he saw that if he did not now whip Clayton he would lose his standing with these men. Clayton was standing quite still, his broad chest heaving, his eyes glittering, and his face still pale; he had his hands up, ready for defense. When Molloy came again, his blow missed, and so did Clayton’s; and then they locked in a fierce grapple, each striving to throw the other. The men stood about, clapping their hands and urging on the fighting. This was to them as good as a circus. “Slug him, Molloy!” “Stand up to him, Pool!” “Hook him under the jaw!” “Cave in his face!”