“Reckon that’s a point to be settled now,” broke in Cameron, handing the reins of his animal to Follett. The scene had attracted attention, and the quick dismounting of Emory brought a dozen of the younger men up on the rush. “It was sort of agin’ my principles to fight in the train,” continued Cameron. “Thar was trouble a-plenty. We’re camped now and it don’t matter.” Emory jeered, “Nice boy, nice manners,” and looked around for his brothers. They had been edged away by the spectators, so he shoved his burly head between his shoulder blades and began weaving his fists. “I’ll tan you! The devil with sech nice ways.” “Any way goes,” countered the other and stepped swiftly aside. Emory rushed in with the black, curly poll pointed like a battering ram. Cameron was not to be deceived; he saw the little red-rimmed eyes peering up at him, waiting for a slip off guard. A fist whirled out, grazed Cameron’s chest and passed on. For so heavy a man the braggart worked lithely. He was about in a moment and charging again, this time upright, both arms flailing. Cameron stumbled in the mud, caught desperately at one of those arms and, going down, pulled his opponent along. It made a weird, unbelievable scene with the rain falling in a never-ending downpour, and the ground six inches deep in muck. The crowd stood closely about and yelled. Follett clung to his club; the fire was trampled out and the ashes smoked dismally. Governor Abernethy had advanced with the rest and stood foremost, the umbrella shielding the lawyer’s black coat, watching the battle with humorous eyes. “This,” he said to Follett, “is a peaceful land. Most of our quarrels have to be imported from Iowa and Missouri.” From her vantage point on the wagon Susan Follett stared in alarm, fists clenched and body moving unconsciously with the fighters. When Cameron went down beneath the braggart’s weight she struck the wagon seat with her knuckles and cried “Tom!” But Tom was buried too deeply in the mud to hear. The stuff covered both men from head to foot. Neither could get a grip and hold it. Time and again blows were launched which missed and landed in the gumbo. The braggart churned both feet to get a better position, lost his balance, and went rolling. The lanky fighter found his opportunity at that moment, got to his knees and fell astride Emory, seizing the black hair. That brought a roar of delight from the crowd. Emory’s head sank down until a yell of fear bubbled out of the muck. Cameron swayed in his improvised saddle, raised the braggart’s head for the moment and recited a short apology. “Say it after me; I beg the lady’s pardon fer causin’ so much trouble.’” “The devil----”