was the heart that counted, said Lefty. Very well, then, but why the bell?
The ring was in a tumult. Jim Grimm had gone over to the timekeeper once more, backed by half-a-dozen other men. Guns were shown openly and knives were felt for. All veneers had peeled. The primitiveness of the fight had got down to the raw manhood in all of them but, with the rawness, the Americans demanded fair play. The Mexican watch-holder had favoured his man again, cutting short the precious minute of rest because the Gringo had been hurt in the last round. Ned Grimm, the referee, joined the group. Then he came back to the centre of the ring and his deep voice dominated the uproar that died grudgingly away to listen.
"This is not a prize-fight," he said. "It's a grudge between two men that is going to be fought out under fair rules. I don't want to give a decision on anything but a knockout. But Padilla struck low. The round was shortened once in his favour and now the rest has been chopped in half to favour him again because he got the better of the last round. Next time that happens Padilla loses the fight and the bets will be collected that way."
The number of pistols that appeared from ranchers and oilmen was astonishing and disconcerting to the Mexican element. They growled and muttered but said nothing as Jim Grimm ostentatiously took out his own watch and took place beside the timekeeper to check him.
It had not been intentional, but Stone had ob-
