Burt L. Standish

“ 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. ”

“ The only difference now between himself and his opponent was that he continued to fight fairly, if ferociously, while Schaeffer did not.
The latter found little opportunity of fouling, however. To his amazement, he discovered that he needed every bit of skill and strength he possessed to keep his feet. Bob bored into him relentlessly, slugging like a pile driver, hammering at his stomach, raining well-directed blows on the heart and kidneys, or varying them now and then with a solid jolt to the jaw. ”

“ 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.
“Fight not finish,” remarked the Indian blandly, “Bell go clang, like in ring. Heap soon Big Punch get up, start ’nother round. Get me, Steve?”
Schaeffer took an involuntary step backward, his face distorted. ”