196          THE  TRAIL OF '98
he always looked so striking. From his big Stetson to his high boots he was typically the big, strong man of Alaska, the Conqueror of the Wild. But his mouth was grim as granite, and his black eyes hard and repellent as those of a toad.
"Oh, you coward!" I cried. "You vile, filthy coward! "
He was looking down on me from his imperious height, very coolly, very cynically.
"Who are you?" he drawled; "I don't know you."
"Liar as well as coward," I panted. " Liar to your teeth.    Brute, coward, liar------"
" Here, get out of my way," he snarled; " I've got to teach you a lesson."
Once more before I could guard he landed on me with that terrible right-arm swing, and down I went as if a sledge-hammer had struck me. But instantly I was on my feet, a thing of blind passion, of desperate fight. I made one rush to throw myself on this human tower of brawn and muscle, when some one pinioned me from behind.    It was Jim.
" Easy, boy," he was saying; " you can't fight this big fellow."
Spitzstein was looking on curiously. With wonderful quickness a crowd had collected, all avidly eager for a fight. Above them towered the fierce, domineering figure of Locasto. There was a breathless pause, then, at the psychological moment, the Jam-wagon intervened.
The smouldering fire in his eye Lad brightened into