ing or staggering to the river to wash their wounds, and the victors were panting and eying one another wolfishly.
"Ten minutes' rest, then you what's left double up and go at it," ruled Prevost.
"I'll take on this new feller," spoke up one of the victors, and he leered malevolently at Lander.
"He's your meat," promptly ruled Prevost. "First come, first served." It was an old game for him, this umpiring of forty fighting men all in action at the same time. He supervised it with the same precision and unconcern he would exhibit in tying up a pack of beaver.
"But I don't hanker to figure as a champion," said Lander.
"Ye won't be no champion, or anywhere near it," chuckled the man who had challenged him. "Don't ye fret any."
Prevost's thin face wrinkled in disgust as he turned on Lander.
"If that's your style, if you're afeared of a little scrimmage among your friends, you ain't no man to go into the Blackfoot country, not even if Jim Bridger did send you," he grunted. "Hook on to Rummy there or hit the trail for St. Louis."
