Joe Woods
reeled under the first blow full in the face, staggered under the
second, and was borne back into the tight-jammed crowd of his followers.
The men about him and Packard withdrew this way and that, leaving empty
floor space to accommodate the two pairs of shuffling boots. Joe Woods
wiped his lips with the back of a big, hairy hand, saw traces of blood,
and charged. The sound of blows given and taken and of little grunts
and of scraping feet were for a space the only sounds heard in Hodges's
saloon.
[Illustration: The men about him and Packard withdrew this way and
that, leaving empty floor space.]
Packard's attack had been swift and sure and not without a certain
skill; against it Woods opposed all he had, ponderous strength,
slow-moving, brutal force, broad-backed, deep-chested endurance. But
from the first it was clear to all who watched and was suspected by
Woods himself that he had chosen the wrong man.
Steve was taller, had the longer reach, was gifted by the gods with a
supple strength no whit less than the bearish power of the timber boss.
With ten blows struck, with both men rocking dizzily, it was patently
Steve Packard's fight. But a dull, dogged persistence was in Joe
Woods's eyes as again he shook his head and charged.
Steve struck for the stomach and landed--hard. Woods doubled up; the
sweat came in drops upon his forehead; his face went suddenly a sick
white.
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