He advanced carefully. Wilson stood awaiting him, a picture of poise and
self-confidence. Y.D. led a quick left to Wilson's ribs, but failed
to land. Wilson parried skilfully and immediately answered with a left
swing to the chin. But Y.D. was learning, and this time he was on guard.
He dodged the blow, broke in and seized Wilson about the body. The two
men stood for a moment like bulls with locked horns. Y.D. brought his
weight to bear on his antagonist to force him to the ground, but in some
way the Englishman got elbow room and began raining short jabs on his
face, already raw from the branding-iron. Y.D. jerked back from this
assault. Then came the third smash on the chin.

Y.D. gathered himself up very slowly. The world was swimming around in
circles. On a post sat a girl, covering him with a revolver and laughing
at him. Somewhere on the horizon Wilson's figure whipped forward and
back. Then his horse came into the circle. Y.D. rose to his feet, strode
with quick, uncertain steps to his horse, threw himself into the saddle
and without a word started up the trail to The Forks.

"Seems to have gone with as little ceremony as he came," Wilson remarked
to his daughter. "Now, let us get along with the calves."...

Y.D. rode the trail to The Forks in bitterness of spirit. He had sallied
forth that morning strong and daring to administer summary punishment;
he was retracing his steps thrashed, humiliated, branded for life by a
red iron thrust in his face by a slip of a girl. He exhausted his by
no means limited vocabulary of epithets, but even his torrents of abuse
brought no solace to him. The hot sun beat down on his wounded face
and hurt terribly, but he almost forgot that pain in the agony of his
humiliation. He had been thrashed by an old man, with a wisp of a girl