She
caught the thud of a blow upon flesh and in a moment there were two men
locked in deadly combat before the post gate. In less time than the
telling, a circle of faces drew round, dark faces of Indians and Bois-
Brules, light faces of De Courtenay's men, and in all there leaped
swift excitement as they saw the combatants. White with passion, his
brilliant eyes flaming and dancing with fury, De Courtenay fought like
a madman to avenge that blow in the face, while McElroy, flushed and
calmer, took with his hands payment for all things,--slighted
kindliness, Company thefts, and, above all else, the stolen heart of
his one woman.
How it would have ended there is no telling, for these two were evenly
matched--what De Courtenay lacked in weight he made up in swiftness and
agility,--had it not been for the side arm that hung at his hip, one of
those small pistols in use across the water where gentlemen fight at
given paces and not across a frozen river or through a mile of brush.
Once, twice, he tried to reach it, and twice did McElroy snatch the
groping hand away. Three times he passed swiftly for the inlaid handle
and, as if there lay luck in the number, the weapon flashed in the red
light.
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