Under Handicap

by Jackson Gregory

  CHAPTER X

  When morning came, Conniston was the last man to crawl out of hisbunk. At breakfast he was the last man to finish. He dawdled over hiscoffee until the cook stared curiously at him, he used up a great dealof time buttering his hot cakes, he ate very slowly. Only after everyother man had left the table did he push his plate aside and go outinto the yard. His manner was unusually quiet this morning, his jawunusually firm, his eye unusually determined. He saw with deepsatisfaction that all of the Half Moon men except Lonesome Pete andBrayley had ridden away upon their day's work. The red-headed cowboywas even now going down to the corrals, a vacant look in his blueeyes, the corners of a little volume sticking out of his hip-pocket,his lips moving to unspoken words. Brayley was going through thefringe of trees toward the house, evidently to speak with Mr. Crawfordupon some range business. Conniston strolled slowly down toward thecorrals, stopping and loitering when he had got there.

  Now and then he caught a glimpse of Lonesome Pete mending his saddlejust within the half-open stable door, but for the most part his eyesrested steadily upon the little path which wriggled through the groveand toward the house. He made and smoked a cigarette, tossing away theburned stub. He glanced at his watch, noticed that he was alreadyhalf an hour late in going to work, and turned back toward the house,his expression the set, even, placid expression of a man who waits,and waits patiently. Five minutes passed--ten minutes--and he stoodstill, making no move to get his horse and ride upon his day's duties.And then, walking swiftly, Brayley came out of the trees and hurried,lurching, toward the corral.

  "What are you waitin' for?" he cried, sharply, when twenty paces away."Ain't you got nothin' to do to-day?"

  Conniston made no answer, turning his eyes gravely upon Brayley'sface, waiting for the man to come up to him.

  "Can't you hear?" called Brayley again, more sharply, coming onswiftly. "What are you waitin' an' loafin' here for?"

  "I want to talk with you a minute." Conniston's voice was very quiet,almost devoid of expression.

  "Well, talk. An' talk fast! I ain't got all day."

  Brayley was standing close to him now, his eyes boring intoConniston's, his manner impatient, irritated. For just a momentConniston stood as though hesitating, leaning slightly forward,balanced upon the balls of his feet. Then he sprang forward suddenly,without sign of warning, taking the big foreman unawares, throwingboth arms about the stalwart body, driving the heavier body back withthe impact of the one hurled against it. Brayley, standing carelessly,loosely, his feet not braced, but close together, unprepared for theattack, fell heavily, lifted clean off his feet, born backward, andslammed to the ground with the breath jolted out of him, Conniston ontop of him.

  "You d--n coward!" he bellowed, as his breath came back into his body."Sneakin' coward!"

  He bunched his great strength and hurled it against the man, who clungto him. Still he was at a disadvantage, being under the other andhaving both arms locked to his side by the clinging embrace which heldhim powerless. For a moment the two men lay writhing and twisting uponthe ground, half hid in their quiet struggle by the dust which puffedup from the dry ground about them. Then, as Brayley again gathered hisstrength in a mighty effort to rid himself of the man who held himdown, Conniston loosened his hold, springing back and up to his feet.And in each hand Conniston held one of Brayley's guns. A quickgesture, and as Brayley rose to his feet he saw his two revolversflying skyward, over the high fence and into the big corral.

  "You got 'em!" Brayley cried, hoarse with anger. "Shoot, youcoward--an' be d--d to you!"

  For answer Conniston jerked his own gun from his belt, tossing it tolie with Brayley's two in the dust of the corral.

  "We're ruling guns out of this, Brayley," he said, quietly. "It'sgoing to be just man to man."

  For a moment Brayley stood, open-mouthed, staring at him. Then, asunderstanding came to him, a great roar burst from his lips, and withhis huge fists clenched he rushed at Conniston. In the sudden accessof rage which blinded the man Conniston might have stepped aside. Butit was no part of his grim purpose to temporize. As Brayley rushedupon him Conniston, too, sprang forward, and the two men met with adull, heavy thud of panting bodies. Brayley's weight was the greater,his rush fiercer, and Conniston was flung back in spite of his doggeddetermination not to give up an inch. He had felt Brayley's iron fistbefore, but not with the rage behind it which now drove it intoConniston's face. The blow laid open his cheek and hurled himbackward, to land upon his feet, his body rocking dizzily, his backjammed against the corral. And only the corral kept him from falling.

  Again Brayley's great sledge-hammer fists shot out, Brayley's eyesglowing redly behind them. Conniston knew that one more blow like thelast one, full in the face, and again he would have been beaten byBrayley. He remembered--and, strangely enough, the remembrance came tohim calmly even while the heart within him beat as though burstingagainst the walls of his chest and the blood hammered hot in hisears--what Argyl had said the other day as they rode to RattlesnakeValley. She had told him that Brayley had licked him because Brayleyhad been the better man. He knew that if Brayley beat him down now itwould be because he was the better man. And he had told Argyl that hewas going to lick Brayley. She had laughed. None the less, it was apromise to her, his first promise, and he was going to keep it.

  As Brayley charged for a second blow, Conniston stepped aside swiftlyand swung with his right arm, collecting every ounce of his strengthand putting it into the blow. Brayley tried to lift his arm to protecthimself, but the fraction of a second too late. Conniston's fistlanded squarely upon the corner of the foreman's jaw, just below theear. Brayley's arms flew out, and with a groan driven from between hisclenched teeth he went down in a heap.

  For a moment he lay unable to rise, the black dizziness showing in hisswimming eyes. A month ago Conniston could not have struck such ablow by many pounds. Already the range had done much, very much, forhim. But before a man could count five both the pain and astonishmenthad gone from Brayley's eyes, giving place to the red anger whichsurged back. And with the return of clamoring rage Brayley's dizzinesspassed and he sprang to his feet. Again was Conniston ready, againtelling himself that he had a promise to keep, and that now or neverwas the time to make good his word. He was over the man whom he hadset out to whip, and as Brayley struggled to his feet it was only toreceive Conniston's fist full in the face again, only to be hurledback to the ground with cut, bleeding lips.

  Again bellowing curses which ran into one another like one long,vicious word, Brayley got to his feet. And again Conniston's fist,itself cut and bleeding and sore, drove into his face, knocking theman down before he had more than risen. As the blow landed upon theheavy bone of the cheek, Conniston's hand went suddenly limp anduseless, his face went sheet-white from the pain of it. Some bone hadbroken, he realized dully. He couldn't clench the hand again. Thefingers hung at his side, shot through with sharp pain, feeling asthough they were being slowly crushed between two stones.

  Brayley got slowly to his feet, swaying like a drunken man, reelingwhen he first stood up, and lurching sideways until his shouldersstruck the high fence of the corral. Conniston put up his left arm,his right hanging powerless at his side, and followed him. Brayley,his deep chest jerking visibly as his breath wheezed through hisswelling lips, waited for him, the anger gone once more from his eyes,which followed Conniston's movements curiously.

  For a moment they stood motionless save for the heaving of muscleswith their quick breathing, eying each other, measuring each other.One thing stood uppermost in Conniston's mind: the foreman, with everydeep breath he drew, was shaking off his dizziness, was regaining hisstrength. The spirit within him, with all of the battering he hadreceived, was still unbroken. And Conniston himself felt his right armgrowing numb to the elbow. In a very few seconds he would be like arag doll in the other's big, strong hands....

  "Well," panted Brayley, "what are you waitin' for? I'll lick you yet!"

  Conniston came on, stepp
ing slowly, cautiously. Brayley stood still,his clenched fists at his waist, his back against the fence. His eyesleft the other's face for a second and ran to the broken hand swingingat his side. A quick light of understanding leaped into the bigcattle-man's face, and he laughed softly. And as he laughed he steppedforward, lifting his fists.

  Conniston swung at him with his left hand. The blow whizzed byBrayley's ear, for he had foreseen it and had ducked. But as heretaliated with a crushing blow, Conniston sprang to the side,ducking. Now it was Brayley again who rushed, a leaping light of hopeof victory, surety of victory, in his eyes.

  But Conniston saw his one chance and took it. He did not give back.And he did not offer the poor defense of one arm against the flail ofblows. Instead he stooped low, very low, jerking his body double,dropping suddenly under Brayley's threshing arms, and hurled himselfbodily to meet the attack, his left shoulder thrust forward, strikingBrayley with the full impact of his hundred and eighty pounds justbelow the knees. They both went down, down together, and withConniston underneath. But to Brayley the thing had come with astunning shock of unexpectedness just as he saw the end of the fight,and Conniston was on his feet a second the first. Again as Brayleysprang up, Conniston stood over him. Again Conniston's fist, his left,but driven with all of the power left in him, beat mercilessly intothe already cut face, driving Brayley down upon his knees. Now he wasswaying helplessly, hopelessly. But still the dogged spirit within himwas undefeated. A strange sort of respect, involuntary, of mingledadmiration and pity; surged into Conniston's heart. He was not angry,he had not been angry from the beginning. This was merely a bit of hisduty, a part of the day's work, the beginning of regeneration, thekeeping of a promise. He was sorry for the man. But he was notforgetting his promise. Brayley was swaying to his feet, his two bighands lifted loosely, weakly, before him. Through their inefficientguard Conniston struck once more, the last blow, swinging from theshoulder. And Brayley went down heavily, like a falling timber, andlay still.

  For a little Conniston stood over him, watchful, wiping the blood fromthe gash in his cheek. He saw that Brayley's eyes were closed, andfelt a quick fear that he had killed him. Then he saw the eyelidsflutter open, close, open again, as the foreman's eyes rested steadilyupon his. He waited. Brayley lifted his head, even struggled to hiselbow, only to fall back prone.

  They were not ten feet from the empty corral. Lonesome Pete, hissaddle mended, rode slowly around the corner of the stable toward thegate. The horse which he was riding was a half-broken three-year-old,but Lonesome Pete was at home upon the backs of half-brokenthree-year-olds. And his red head was full of Jocelyn Truxton and"Macbeth." He rode with his hat low over his eyes, one hand holdinghis horse's reins, the other grasping firmly a little book. So ithappened that Lonesome Pete rode through the gate and close to the twomen and did not see them.

  But the horse did see them, did see a man lying stretched upon theground, and with the sharp nostrils of its kind the horse scentedfresh blood. The result was that the frightened brute reared,snorting, and wheeled suddenly, plunging back through the corral gate.And Lonesome Pete, taken unawares as he sat loosely in the saddle, wasjerked rudely out of his dreamings of the fair Jocelyn and the bloodyMacbeth to find his horse shooting out from under him, and to findhimself sitting upon the hard ground with his legs in Brayley's lap.

  Brayley's strength of lungs came back to him with a new anger. "Youhowlin' idiot, what are you tryin' to do?"

  "I was a-readin'," responded Lonesome Pete, still grinning vapidly,still not quite certain whether the things which he saw about him werereal things or literary hallucinations.

  "A-readin'!" snapped Brayley, sitting up. "That what I'm payin' youfor, you blame gallinipper!"

  With a glance from Brayley's lacerated face to the bloody smears onConniston's, Lonesome Pete got to his feet and, shaking his head anddusting the seat of his overalls as he went, turned and disappearedinto the stable after his horse. Brayley glared after him a second,grunted, and got to his feet.

  "Well," he snarled, facing Conniston. "You licked me. Now what? Wantto beat me up some more?"

  "No, I don't," Conniston answered him, steadily. "You know I had to doit, Brayley. You had it coming to you after that first night in thebunk-house. Now--I want to shake hands, if you do."

  With a keen, measuring glance from under swelling eyelids, and nofaintest hesitation, Brayley put out his hand.

  "Shake!" he grunted. "You done it fair. I didn't think you had it inyou. And"--with a distorted grin--"I'll 'scuse the left hand, Con!"