Bainbridge flung back a long lock of black hair with a quick jerk of his head, and glared around the circle with fiercely blazing eyes. “Is that so?” he jeered. “Who’s running this game? I didn’t hear any talk like that when I was getting the worst of it. You were ready enough to let him do what he liked with me, so keep out of this now while he takes his medicine.” His glance veered swiftly to Schaeffer’s face, looking like a chalky mask dabbled with crimson, and he thrust his head forward. “Well?” he sneered. “Scared, are you? I thought you were yellow down at the bottom. Put up your hands!” His voice was hard and cold, and utterly pitiless. “I’m not half done with you yet.” The man’s exhausted, almost pitiful condition did not move him in the slightest. He thought only of the fellow’s treachery, of the repeated exhibitions of foul play and attempts to maim, and he had no mercy. When the riverman raised his hands in a weak, instinctive attempt at defense, Bainbridge leaped forward and broke his guard by smashing blows on the face. Schaeffer gasped, cried out in agony and then thrust forward blind, groping hands. He was a picture of utter helplessness, and suddenly the sight of him standing there, with quivering lips and trembling hands, aroused in Bainbridge a bitter disgust--disgust for Schaeffer, for himself, and every one in sight. He stepped back, his heavy black brows contracted in a frown, and stood for a second sizing up his man, and deciding just what sort of a punch would most quickly end the contest. Like a flash he leaped forward. The blow started almost at Bob’s hip, and held the whole compact mass of him behind it. It doubled Schaeffer like a jackknife, and sent him whirling backward into the arms of his men, a limp, utterly senseless mass. CHAPTER VII. MASTER OF THE SITUATION Consciously Bob Bainbridge stepped back a pace or two, and rested one hand on the shoulder of Moose. He was breathing hard, and the reaction from the stress and strain of vigorous fighting made him feel limp and unsteady. No hint of this appeared on the surface. With cold, unemotional eyes he watched three or four men pick up the unconscious Schaeffer and carry him back to the tent. Some of the men stood staring curiously, but the majority had gathered about a brawny youngster, handsome in a physical way, with bold blue eyes, a thatch of tawny yellow curls, and a reckless, dare-devil manner. He was one of those who had been readiest to take Schaeffer’s part, and now, as he turned toward Bainbridge, followed by a dozen or more of his companions, Bob was conscious of a sudden, curious sense of familiarity with the boy’s face. For a second he thought it simply the result of a rather good memory. This was his first sight of Schaeffer’s river gang but it was quite possible he had run across the rather striking youngster at some other time or place.