Just in time he saw Schaeffer’s left knee suddenly jerked up and forward. Like a flash he leaped to one side, his whole mind intent on thwarting the intended trick, and so he fell for a move which would never ordinarily have bothered him. A clenched fist, hard and compact almost as a stone, thudded solidly on the very point of his jaw. Bainbridge went suddenly limp, slipping noiselessly to the ground. CHAPTER VI. THE FINISH UNEXPECTED As Bob toppled forward and lay still, a long, deep, concerted sigh of released tension arose from the spectators, followed by a chorus of admiring commendation. These rough-and-ready river hogs saw nothing unfair in their foreman’s method of fighting. The woods’ rules of combat are simple. “Get your man,” is the principle one. The manner of getting does not count. “Nice work, Pete!” called one. “Pretty!” “Good for you, old buck! You put him to sleep fine!” Schaeffer made no reply to these comments; in fact, it is doubtful if he heard them. His face, torn and bleeding in many places, bore an expression of utter savagery. His cut lips were drawn back over sharp teeth in a bestial snarl. His fists were clenched tightly, and every muscle was tense as he stood glaring down with hate-filled, bloodshot eyes at the body of his fallen opponent. “You meddling dog!” he snarled viciously, after a momentary silence. “Thought you could lick me, did you? Thought you could put one over on me, you skunk! Well, you got yours, an’ I ain’t done with you yet, not by a long shot!” He took a single swift step toward the prostrate man. It was plain to every one that he meant to drive that heavy, spiked boot again and again at the helpless body, yet not one of the rivermen uttered a word of protest. A number of faces expressed disapproval, but in the big woods if a man chooses to end a combat in this manner it isn’t etiquette to interfere. Schaeffer paused beside the prostrate figure for a second or two, as if to prolong his pleasurable anticipation. Then, with a sudden snarl of returning fury, he swiftly drew back one foot. “Stop!” The word which came snapping across the circle held in it so much of the essence of command that the riverman obeyed instinctively; obeyed, and then, realizing what he had done, foamed with a fresh fury. “Why, you copper-colored whelp!” he exploded, glaring darkly at the imperturbable redskin. “Wait! When I get through with this junk here----” He stopped abruptly, and drew his breath with a whistling sound. Joe Moose was moving leisurely toward him, a most efficient-looking revolver pointed casually at the riverman’s stomach. He halted within a few feet of Schaeffer, and stood regarding him with that cool, expressionless stare which was so characteristic. On the ground between them Bainbridge gave a low groan, and moved his head uneasily from side to side.