Part 41 (1/2)

”For robbing the bank and murdering Robert Milton, as you know well enough.”

”Is this another plant arranged for me by you and Selfridge?” demanded Elliot.

Macdonald ignored the question and lifted his voice. ”Come out of that tent, Holt,--and come with your hands up unless you want your head blown off.”

”Holt isn't in that tent, you d.a.m.ned idiot. If you want to know--”

”Come _now_, if you expect to come alive,” cut in the Scotchman ominously. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and covered the shadow thrown by the sun on the figure within.

Gordon flung out a wild protest and threw the frozen slab of bacon at the head of Macdonald. With the same motion he launched his own body across the stove. A fifth of a second earlier the tent flap had opened and Sheba had come out.

The sight of her paralyzed Macdonald and saved her lover's life.

It distracted the mine-owner long enough for him to miss his chance.

A bullet struck the stove and went off at a tangent through the tent canvas not two feet from where Sheba stood. A second went speeding toward the sun. For Gordon had followed the football player's instinct and dived for the knees of his enemy.

They went down together. Each squirming for the upper place, they rolled over and over. The rifle was forgotten. Like cave men they fought, crus.h.i.+ng and twisting each other's muscles with the blind l.u.s.t of primordials to kill. As they clinched with one arm, they struck savagely with the other. The impact of smas.h.i.+ng blows on naked flesh sounded horribly cruel to Sheba.

She ran forward, calling on each by name to stop. Probably neither knew she was there. Their whole attention was focused on each other. Not for an instant did their eyes wander, for life and death hung on the issue.

Chance had lit the spark of their resentment, but long-banked pa.s.sions were blazing fiercely now.

They got to their feet and fought toe to toe. Sledge-hammer blows beat upon bleeding and disfigured faces. No thought of defense as yet was in the mind of either. The purpose of each was to bruise, maim, make helpless the other. But for the impotent little cries of Sheba no sound broke the stillness save the crunch of their feet on the hard snow, the thud of heavy fists on flesh, and the throaty snarl of their deep, irregular breathing.

Gid Holt, from the window of the cabin, watched the battle with s.h.i.+ning eyes. He exulted in every blow of Gordon; he suffered with him when the smas.h.i.+ng rights and lefts of Macdonald got home. He shouted jeers, advice, threats, encouragement. If he had had ten thousand dollars wagered on the outcome he could not have been more excited.

Swift.w.a.ter Pete, drawn by the cries of Sheba, came running from the stable. As he pa.s.sed the window, Holt caught him by the arm.

”What are you aimin' to do, Pete? Let 'em alone. Let 'em go to it.

They got to have it out. Stop 'em now and they'll get at it with guns.”

Sheba ran up, wringing her hands. ”Stop them, please. They're killing each other.”

”Nothing of the kind, girl. You let 'em alone, Pete. The kid's there every minute, ain't he? Gee, that's a good one, boy.

Seven--eleven--ninety-two. 'Attaboy!”

Macdonald had slipped on the snow and gone down to his hands and knees.

Swift as a wildcat the younger man was on top of him. Hampered though he was by his parka, the Scotchman struggled slowly to his feet again. He was much the heavier man, and in spite of his years the stronger. The muscles stood out in knots on his shoulders and across his back, whereas on the body of his more slender opponent they flowed and rippled in rounded symmetry. Active as a heather cat, Elliot was far the quicker of the two.

Half-blinded by the hammering he had received, Gordon changed his method of fighting. He broke away from the clinch and sidestepped the bull-like rush of his foe, covering up as well as he could from the onset.

Macdonald pressed the attack and was beaten back by hard, straight lefts and rights to the unprotected face.

The mine-owner shook the matted hair from his swollen eyes and rushed again. He caught an uppercut flush on the end of the chin. It did not even stop him. The weight of his body was in the blow he lashed up from his side.

The knees of Elliot doubled up under him like the blade of a jackknife.

He sank down slowly, turned, got to his hands and knees, and tried to shake off the tons of weight that seemed to be holding him down.

Macdonald seized him about the waist and flung him to the ground. Upon the inert body the victor dropped, his knees clinching the torso of the unconscious man.