A curse hissed from the other's stiff, open lips, and insane with rage, head down, he threw himself forward. Roger met the rush with a straight left, which cut through an eyebrow like a knife, and went home with a crack on a high cheek bone; but no blow could stop the rush of rage and in another moment the man was on him, grappling for a hold. The fight for the nonce became a scuffle. The stranger fought as Roger had never seen a white man fight before; his hard brown fingers were fixed rigidly like iron claws with which he struck and clutched spasmodically for a grip on the flesh of face or neck. "I'll claw the face off you, you sucker! I'll leave you blind for the vultures to pick." "Fight like a white man!" cried Roger, throwing him off. "Close your fists and hit, or, by the eternal, I'll beat you to a pulp." He caught the wrists of the frenziedly clawing hands as they chopped at him again and in an instant was forced to let go, as his assailant kicked with vicious cunning at his groin. Roger drew a great breath, filling his lungs to their utmost capacity, then, venting his loathing rage in a rumbling bellow, he dove in regardless. Straight against the ironlike claws he drove, reckless in the grasp of the anger that had exploded within him at the unfair trick. Up and back he beat the clutching hands, and drove his right fist to the lower ribs with a force that made the victim gasp. Again he struck, bringing his fist from behind him in an irresistible arc to its mark. Again and again he struck the cattleman's hardened body and then, sensing his opponent's wilting, he drove in, both arms working like pistons, literally beating his man flat to the ground. Roger stepped back. The tough-bodied fellow on the ground, though overwhelmed by the relentless shower of blows, was not unconscious and not whipped. He lay panting and helpless for the moment, his eyes held fearfully on Roger's boots. "You hound!" gasped the young man as he understood. "Do you think I'd kick you when you're down. Get up, get up! You've got only half of what's coming to you." "Can't get up," said the prostrate man sullenly, after a pause. "Hip's broke, or something." "You lie! Get up, you liar!" "All right." The cattleman slumped helplessly together. "Go ahead; stomp on me. I can't get up." Roger stood looking down at him irresolutely. In the fury of combat he had been ready, even eager, to wreak any possible damage to his opponent by fighting. Now with his blood growing cooler and no antagonist before him it was a different matter, and the Anglo-Saxon instinct to succor a fallen and helpless foe began to assert itself. "You're a lying hound," he said furiously, to hide his intentions. "Your hip is as sound as mine. Get up." "All right; stomp on me; go ahead; I can't move." "Where do you pretend you're hurt?"