The Bemidji daily pioneer. [volume] (Bemidji, Minn.) 1904-1971, 1922-05-31

The man in velveteens met the eyes
Of the energetic manhandler and
quailed. This brown-faced barbarian
looked very much like business.
Don't you touch me! Don't you
dare touch me I" the apostle Of anarchy
shrilled as the table crashed down.
'I'I turn you over to the potice!"
Clay jerked him to his feet. Hard
knuckles pressed cruelty into the soft
throat of the Villager. "Git down on
yore ham bones and beg the lady's par
don. Tell her you're yellow pup, but
you don't reckon you'll ever pull
bone like that again."
The companions Of the poet rushed
forward to protest at the manhandling
Of their leader. Those in the rear
jammed the front ones close to Clay
and his captive. The cow puncher
gently but strongly pushed them back.
"Don't get on the prod" he advised
in his genial drawl. "The poet he's got
an important engagement right now"
A kind Of scuffle developed. The pro-
prietor increased it by his hystericM
efforts to prevent any trouble. Men
Joined themselves to the noisy group
Of which Clay was the smiling center.
The excitement increased. Distant
corners Of the room became the refuge
Of the women. Some one struck at the
COW puncher over the heads Of those
about him. The mass Of closely packed
human beings showed a convulsive; &C.
tivity. 1t became suddenly the most
popular indoor sport at the Sea Siren
to Stay this barbarian from the desert
who had interfered with the amuse-
ments Of Bohemia.
But Clay took lot of staying In
the rough-and-tumble life of the out
door West he had learned how to look
out for his own hand. The copper
hair Of his strong lean head rose above
the tangle Of the melee like the bro
midic Helmet Of Navarro. A reckless
light Of mirth dubbed In his dare
devil eyes. The very number Of the
opponents who .interfered with each
other trying to get at him was guar
antee Of safety. The blows showered
ut him lacked steam and were badly
timed as to distance.
The pack rolled across the room,
tipped over table, and deluged an
artist and his affinity with hot choco-
late before they could escape from the
avalanche. Chairs went over like
ninepins. Stands collapsed. Men grunt-
ed and shouted advice. Girls: screamed.
The Sea Siren was being wrecked by a
cyclone from the bad lands ~. e
Arms threshed wildly to and fro. The
local point of their destination was the
figure at the center of tile disturbance.
Most Of the blows found other marks.
Four or five men could have demol-
ished Clay. Fifteen or twenty found it
n tough job because they interfered
with each other at every turn. They
were packed too close for hard hitting.
Clay was not fighting but wrestling.
He used his arms to push with rather
than to strike blows that counted.
The Arizonan could not afterward
remember at exactly what stage Of the
proceedings the face of Jerry Durand
impinged itself on his consciousness.
Once, when the swirl Of the crowd
flung him close to the door, he caught
a glimpse Of 1t, tight-lipped and wolf:
eyed, turned to him with relentless
malice. The gang leader was taking
no part in the fight.
The crowd parted. Out Of the pack
a pair of strong arms and lean broad
shoulders plowed way for a some
what damaged face that still carried
a debonair smile. With pantherish
litheness the Arizonan ducked a
swinging blow. A moment, and ne was
outside taking the three steps that led
to the street.
Into his laboring lungs he drew de-
liciously the soft breath of the night.
It cooled the fever Of his hammered
face, was like an icy bath to his hot
body. A little dizzy from the blows
| that had been rained on him. he stood
for a moment uncertain which way to
| so.
Continued in Next lss-e|