"Tie into him, Rondeau," another shouted.
"It's a fair match," cried another, "and the red one picked on the
main push. He was looking for a fight, an' he ought to get it; but
these fancy fights don't suit me. Flop him, stranger, flop him."
"Rondeau can't catch him," a fourth man jeered. "He's a foot-racer,
not a fighter."
Suddenly two powerful hands were placed between Bryce's shoulders,
effectually halting his backward progress; then he was propelled
violently forward until he collided with Rondeau. With a bellow of
triumph, the woods-boss's gorilla-like arms were around Bryce,
swinging him until he faced the man who had forced him into that
terrible grip. This was no less a personage than Colonel Seth
Pennington, and it was obvious he had taken charge of what he
considered the obsequies.
"Stand back, you men, and give them room," he shouted. "Rondeau will
take care of him now. Stand back, I say. I'll discharge the man that
interferes."
With a heave and a grunt Rondeau lifted his antagonist, and the pair
went crashing to the earth together, Bryce underneath. And then
something happened. With a howl of pain, Rondeau rolled over on his
back and lay clasping his left wrist in his right hand, while Bryce
scrambled to his feet.
"The good old wrist-lock does the trick," he announced; and stooping,
he grasped the woods-boss by the collar with his left hand, lifted
him, and struck him a terrible blow in the face with his right.
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