Springer’s face changed markedly during Jane’s long explanation. Then he threw his gun on the ground in front of Jane. “Jones, I’m goin’ to beat you half to death,” he said grimly, and, leaping at the cowboy, he jerked him out of the saddle sprawling on the ground. Next Springer threw aside his sombrero, his vest, his spurs. But he kept on his gloves. The cowboy rose to one knee, and he measured the distance between him and Springer, and then the gun on the ground. Suddenly he sprang toward it. But Springer intercepted him with a powerful kick that tripped Jones and laid him flat. “Jones, you’re sure about as low-down as they come,” he said, in dark scorn. “I’ve got to be satisfied with beatin’ you when I ought to kill you.” “Ahuh! Wal, boss, it ain’t any safe bet thet you can beat me,” returned Jones, sullenly, as he got up. As they rushed together Jane had wit enough to pick up the gun, and then with it and Jones’, to get back to a safe distance. She wanted to run away out of sight. But she could neither do that nor keep her fascinated gaze from the combatants. Even in her distraught condition she could see that the cowboy, fierce and active and strong as he was, could not hold his own with Springer. They fought over all the open space, and crashed into the cedars and out again. The time came when Jones was on the ground as much as he was erect. Bloody, dishevelled, beaten, he kept on trying to stem the onslaught of blows. Suddenly he broke off a dead branch of cedar, and brandishing it rushed at the rancher. Jane uttered a cry, closed her eyes and sank down. She heard fierce imprecations and sodden blows. When at length she opened her eyes in terror, fearing something dreadful, she saw Springer erect, wiping his face, and Jones lying prone on the ground. Then Jane saw him go to his horse, untie a canteen from the saddle, remove his bloody gloves and wash his face with a wet scarf. Next he poured some water on Jones’ face. “Come on, Jane,” he called. “Reckon it’s all over.” He tied the bridle of Jones’ horse to a cedar, and leading his own animal turned to meet Jane. “I want to compliment you on gettin’ that cowboy’s gun,” he said, warmly. “But for that they’d sure have been somethin’ bad. I’d have had to kill him, Jane.... Here, give me the guns.... You poor little tenderfoot from Missouri. No, not tenderfoot any longer. You became a westerner today.” His face was bruised and cut, his dress dirty and bloody, but he did not appear the worse for that fight. Jane found her legs scarcely able to support her, and she had apparently lost her voice. “Let me put you on my saddle till we find your horse,” he said, and lifted her lightly as a feather to a seat crosswise. Then he walked with a hand on the bridle.