One day two of the latter, conducting the jam of the
miniature drive astern, came within reach of the Rough Red. The
latter had lingered in hopes of rescuing his peavy, which had gone
overboard. To lose one's peavy is, among rivermen, the most
mortifying disgrace. Consequently, the Rough Red was in a fit mood
for trouble. He attacked the two single-handed. A desperate battle
ensued, which lasted upward of an hour. The two rivermen punched,
kicked, and battered the Rough Red in a manner to tear his clothes,
deprive him to some extent of red whiskers, bloody his face, cut his
shoulder, and knock loose two teeth. The Rough Red, more than the
equal of either man singly, had reciprocated in kind. Orde, driving
in toward the rear from a detour to avoid a swamp, heard, and
descended from his buckboard. Tying his horses to trees, he made
his way through the brush to the scene of conflict. So winded and
wearied were the belligerents by now that he had no difficulty in
separating them. He surveyed their wrecks with a sardonic half
smile.
"I call this a draw," said he finally. His attitude became
threatening as the two up-river men, recovering somewhat, showed
ugly symptoms. "Git!" he commanded.
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