"Shucks! It ain't nothin' to what I'm goin' to do with ye once ye git over pumpin' for wind," bellowed Long Simons, lounging nearer, his hamlike hands held before him, half closed like a gorilla's, his huge shoulders sagging and rising.
With a husky bleat Porker turned to clinch him, but Simons waved him back, warning:
"Take yer time. Ye'll need lots of wind to buck ag'in' me. Git yer breath. I don't want no one sayin' I ran foul o' ye while ye was tuckered out. I've heard th' talk ye've been makin' an' I'm goin' to make ye eat yer words. This row atween ye 'n' me is goin' to be a real fight, I reckon."
Calmed by his realization of the desperate game ahead of him, and disquieted by observing that Simons seemed to have sobered off quite thoroughly, Porker walked to the river bank and splashed the cold water over his head and shoulders. Prevost helped Lander sit up and the sandy-haired chap who had quit brought water and bathed his head. For a minute Lander could not identify himself and stared foolishly at the rough men and wondered why they were so bruised and battered. They grinned at him sympathetically, and by degrees the details of the fight came back to him.
