It was perhaps on account of this good nature that Blackwell made a mistake. He picked on the young man to be the butt of his coarse pleasantries. Day after day he pointed his jeers at Curly, who continued to grin as if he did not care. When the worm turned, it happened that they were all sitting on the porch. Curly was sewing a broken stirrup leather, Blackwell had a quirt in his hand, and from time to time flicked it at the back of his victim. Twice the lash stung, not hard, but with pepper enough to hurt. Each time the young man asked him to stop. Blackwell snapped the quirt once too often. When he picked himself out of the dust five seconds later, he was the maddest man in Arizona. Like a bull he lowered his head and rushed. Curly sidestepped and lashed out hard with his left. The convict whirled, shook the hair out of his eyes, and charged again. It was a sledge-hammer bout, with no rules except to hit the other man often and hard. Twice Curly went down from chance blows, but each time he rolled away and got to his feet before his heavy foe could close with him. Blackwell had no science. His arms went like flails. Though by sheer strength he kept Flandrau backing, the latter hit cleaner and with more punishing effect. Curly watched his chance, dodged a wild swing, and threw himself forward hard with his shoulder against the chest of the convict. The man staggered back, tripped on the lowest step of the porch, and went down hard. The fall knocked the breath out of him. "Had enough?" demanded Curly. For answer Blackwell bit his thumb savagely. "Since you like it so well, have another taste." Curly, now thoroughly angry, sent a short-arm jolt to the mouth. The man underneath tried to throw him off, but Flandrau's fingers found his hairy throat and tight- [Transcriber's Note: the last line printed in the preceeding paragraph was "tight-" and that was at a page break. The continuation was not printed at the top of the following page. From the context, "tightened" is likely the completed word.] "You're killing me," the convict gasped. "Enough?" "Y-yes." Curly stepped back quickly, ready either for a knife or a gun-play. Blackwell got to his feet, and glared at him. "A man is like a watermelon; you can't most generally tell how good he is till you thump him," Sam chuckled. Cranston laughed. "Curly was not so ripe for picking as you figured, Lute. If you'd asked me, I could a-told you to put in yore spare time letting him alone. But a fellow has to buy his own experience." The victor offered his hand to Blackwell. "I had a little luck. We'll call it quits if you say so." "I stumbled over the step," the beaten man snarled. "Sure. I had all the luck." "Looked to me like you were making yore own luck, kid," Bad Bill differed. The paroled convict went into the house, swearing to get even. His face was livid with fury.