THE FIGHT
Shut in on all sides by the fog, ankle deep in the mud, Corporal Jimmy
Blaise and Private Bixton were locked in a savage grip, from which one
of them fought desperately to free himself. Bixton had no will to
fight--he wanted to run. Once clear of his hated antagonist, he could
dash off into the blackness, and defy pursuit. Only one man stood
between him and liberty. He had risked too much already to endure defeat
and capture. He _must_ break away.
Jimmy was as fully determined in an opposite direction. Reckless
disregard for himself had caused him to act with his usual impetuosity.
He had reached the door just in time to see Bixton about to swing off
the train. In the next instant he had followed his quarry. Luckily for
him, the force of Bixton's descent had sent him sprawling in the mud,
for an instant stunned. Had the train been going at full speed, he must
undoubtedly have been killed. Jimmy, on the contrary, had landed on his
feet like a cat. Turning instantly, he ran back to where Bixton was just
picking himself up.
With a hoarse shout of triumph, Jimmy leaped upon Bixton and slammed him
back to earth. Simultaneously with the onslaught, Bixton's brain began
to act. His long, wiry arms flung about Jimmy, he put his full strength
into use. Over and over in the mud they rolled, neither able to gain the
advantage.
It was a sickening struggle, calculated to wear out both combatants in
short order. The collapse of one meant the supremacy of the other.
Evenly matched in sheer brute strength, it soon became a test of which
could endure longest.
Forced by the growing knowledge that he was beginning to weaken, Jimmy
came into a last fierce rush of strength that tore him free of that
devastating hold. Before Bixton could rise, Jimmy was upon him like a
whirlwind, striking ferociously in the dark. His first blow landed full
on the deserter's chest, eliciting from him a deep groan. It was
followed by a rain of blows planted with all the strength that Jimmy had
left in him. Nor did his arm cease to descend until it began to dawn
upon him that he was having things all his own way. He had won; knocked
out Bixton. Perhaps he had killed the man. He hoped not. If he had----
Jimmy slid off his foe's motionless body, and groped in his trousers'
pocket for his flashlight. It had no doubt been wrecked, he thought. He
found it, fumbled it over in the dark. A white light sprang into being.
Turning it directly on Bixton, Jimmy proceeded to make investigation.
He finally raised up with a relieved sigh. Bixton was breathing. Now
came the question of what to do next. Bixton would have to be put past
the power of doing further fighting that night. Perhaps he was, already.
Jimmy intended to take no chances as to that. Bixton must be tied. But
with what? Hastily rising, Jimmy went through his pockets, producing two
handkerchiefs. Studying for a moment, he bent down and turned Bixton
over. With one handkerchief he bound the man's hands tightly behind his
back, with a secureness that was warranted to hold. This finally done,
he again paused to consider.
His money belt next went to decorate Bixton. Of soft, pliable leather,
he managed with some difficulty to tie it about Bixton's neck, allowing
sufficient laxity for breathing, but that was all. Tearing the other
handkerchief diagonally across, he knotted it together, twisted it into
a rope, and knotted one end of it around the belt. Now he had a halter
by which he purposed to lead Bixton, provided he was able to walk. It
would not be a pleasant business, but it was the only way. All he could
now do was to await the awakening of his captive.
That awakening took place about ten minutes after Jimmy had concluded
his preparations. It began with moans, was succeeded by indistinct
mutterings, and ended in a volley of curses, as Bixton endeavored to sit
up, only to find that something peculiar had happened to his arms.
Promptly getting behind him, Jimmy helped him to his feet, not
forgetting to obtain a good grip on the improvised halter.
"Now listen to me, you deserter," he began sternly, still behind his
man. "I've got you where I want you. You can't get away from me. If you
try to you'll only succeed in shutting off your own wind. So don't start
anything. I've put your arms out of business, too. You've still got a
pair of legs, though, and you're going to use 'em. We're going to start
now for somewhere. You'll be ahead and I'll be about two feet behind
you, treading on your heels. We'll follow the railroad track until we
get to some place where I can hand you over as a deserter. But before we
start you're going to tell me a few things."
Bixton's only reply was a series of violent jerks that soon ceased.
Half-strangled by his efforts, and still groggy from his recent
punishment, he soon ceased struggling, and stood still.
"Thank you." Jimmy's voice quivered with irony. "Now I guess we're ready
for our talk. First, where did you get that list of poisons, and that
bottle of powdered glass that you put in Schnitzel's suitcase? I know
you stole our letters, and put 'em with the other stuff."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie. You do know. Answer me with the truth." Jimmy jerked the
halter.
"Stop that! Do you want to kill me?"
"You won't die. Don't worry about that. Now tell me quick, or I'll
repeat my little halter stunt." Realizing that he had a coward, as well
as a villain to deal with, Jimmy pretended a cold-bloodedness which he
did not feel. He had no desire to do Bixton personal injury. He was
merely set on wringing a confession from him.
"I don't know anything about a poison list," quavered Bixton. "I pounded
up the glass myself, and put it in that Fritzie's suitcase for a joke. I
took your letters to get even with you. I kept 'em till I got a chance
to stick 'em onto Schnitz when they'd raise a fuss."
"It's a pretty streaked joke that will put a man in prison on a murder
charge. Anyway, you've admitted it. You'll do it again as soon as we get
to where you can make a full confession and sign it. After that you can
answer to a charge for deserting from the Service. Now, Forward March,
and remember I'm right with you. The track's straight ahead."
It is difficult for one man, wholly unimpeded, to travel sure-footedly
in the darkness. A journey such as Jimmy made that night, in company
with Bixton, he regarded ever afterward as the supreme feat of his
military career. The night wore on, and the fog lifted, but still that
strangely assorted pair tramped the ties, stepping off twice to let
trains go by them, which Jimmy vainly hailed. Toward five o'clock the
myriad lights of a large town began to gleam ahead of them. Traveling
with such painful slowness, Jimmy had no idea of how far they had
walked. Neither did he care. All he wanted was to reach some place where
he could rid himself of his detested captive.
It was half-past five when they entered the railroad yards of the town.
Dawn just beginning to show in the east, their first encounter was with
a railroad policeman who stood transfixed in the middle of a yawn at
sight of them.
"Hello, there!" hailed Jimmy. "I need you. This fellow is a deserter. He
was on the way to Camp Abbott and jumped the train. I jumped after him
and nailed him."
"It's a lie," shrieked Bixton. "He's the deserter. It's the other way
round. He deserted and I jumped off after him. We had a fight and he
nailed me. I----"
"I'm Corporal Blaise from Camp Sterling." Jimmy pointed to the insignia
on his sleeve. "I was sent to help conduct a detachment of men to Camp
Abbott. What I want to do is to turn this man over to you, so that I can
telegraph my K. O. After that he has a confession to make that I want
taken down before proper authorities and signed."
"You're a pretty smart Sammy." The policeman viewed Jimmy with
admiration. "Now you just let me handle this. I'll run this yellow dog
in while you go and get cleaned up and do your telegraphing. You'd
better take time to eat a bite, too. Afterward you take a hike up to
Station House No. 10. It's about three blocks from here. You can find
it. That's where this un's going on the jump. Some harness you put on
him! Guess you give him a mud bath and took one yourself. You're a good
'un, blessed if you ain't."
"Oh, I'm not so much." Jimmy grinned, his face flushing under its
liberal coating of mud. "Well, I'm going to beat it. So long."
Heading on a run for the nearby railroad station, Jimmy felt in a pocket
and fished up the little wad of notes he had extracted from his money
belt before decorating Bixton with it. Entering the station telegraph
office, he sent his message.
"Guess that'll give 'em a surprise at headquarters," he reflected as he
left the telegraph office. "It's been some night and it's going to be
some day. A fine, peaceful, quiet Sunday at that. I'll have to stay
here, I guess, until I'm told what to do next. But, oh, boy! Wait till I
get back to Sterling!"