When Bill sprang forward to intercept the attack upon the girl he came
with amazing accuracy and power. There was nothing of blindness or
misdirection about that leap. It was as if his sight had already
returned to him. The real truth was that by means of his acute ear he
had located the exact position of every actor in the impending drama.
What was more important, he knew the location of both candles. For all
his almost total blindness, he could discern through his watering eyes
the faint, yellow gleam of each. The one that burned beside him, on the
little shelf, he brushed off with one sweep of his hand as he leaped.
He knocked the second from the table; it fell, flickered, filled the
room an instant with dancing light, and then went out. The utter
darkness dropped down.
The act had been so swift and unexpected that neither Joe, standing
nearest to the girl, or Harold across the room could draw their pistols
and fire. Seemingly in a flash the darkness was upon them. No more was
Bill the blind and helpless mole, to strike down with one careless blow.
He was face to face with his enemies in his own dark lair. He had
turned the tables; the advantage of vision on which they had presumed
had been in an instant removed. They could see no more than he could
now. Besides, in the hours since his rescue, he had already learned to
find his way around the cabin.
And this was no half-darkness--that which descended as the candles
were struck down. It was the infinite, smothering gloom of an
underground cave in which no shadow could live, nor the sharpest outline
remain visible. Harold cursed in the blackness; as if in a continuation
of the leap he had made to upset the candles, Bill seized Virginia in
his strong arms. He thrust her to the floor and into the angle between
her bunk and the wall, the point that he instinctively realized would be
easiest to defend and safest from stray bullets. Then, widening his
arms, almost to the width of the little space between the table and the
wall, he lunged forward again.
Virginia's pistol was in Joe's hand by now, and he shot in Bill's
direction. Two spurts of yellow fire broke for an instant the utter
gloom. But there was no time for a third shot. He was the nearest of
the three attackers, and Bill's outstretched arms seized him. The
woodsman's muscles gave a mighty wrench.
His grasp was about Joe's chest at first, but with a great lurch he
slung the man's body out far enough so that he could loop his sinewy
arms about the man's knees. Joe was shifted in his arms as workmen are
sometimes snatched up by a mighty belt in a machine shop; he seemed
simply to snap in the remorseless grasp. Bill himself had no sensation
of his enemy's weight. He had him about the knees by now, Joe's body
thrust out almost straight from centrifugal force, and with a terrific
wrench of his mighty shoulders Bill hurled him against the wall.
It was well for his enemies that none of them were in the road of that
human missile. They would have taken no further part in the ensuing
battle. Joe's body crushed against the logs with a sound that was
strange and horrible in the utter darkness; the pistol spun from his
hand and rattled down'; then he fell with a crash to the floor. There
was no further movement from him thereafter. His neck had been broken
like a match. The odds were but two to one.
Harold had taken out his own revolver now and was shooting blindly in
the darkness. Ducking low, Bill leaped for him. In that leap there was
none of the gentle mercy with which he had dealt with him first, so long
ago in Harold's cabin. But a quick movement by Harold saved him from
the full force of the leap; in a moment they were grappling in each
other's arms.
Bill wrenched him back and forth, and in an instant would have crushed
the life out of him if it hadn't been for the interference of Pete. The
latter breed leaped on his back, and Bill had to neglect Harold an
instant to stretch up his arms and hurl Pete to the floor. Harold still
clung to him, trying to seize his throat, but Bill wrenched him down.
He flung his own body down on top of him, then seized him by the throat
with the deadly intention of hammering his head on the floor; but before
he could accomplish his purpose Pete was upon him again.
It was the end of the preliminaries. In that second the fight began in
earnest. They were both powerful men, the breed and Harold; and Bill
was like a wild beast--quick as a cougar, resistless as a grizzly--a
fighting fury that in the darkness was terrible as death. Mighty
muscles, stinging blows, striking fists and grasping arms; the rage and
glory of battle was upon him as never before.
It was the death fight--in the darkness--and that meant it was a
savage, nightmare thing that called forth those most deep and terrible
instincts that in the first days of the earth were stored and implanted
in the germ plasm. These were no longer men of the twentieth century.
They were simply beasts, fighting to the death in a cave. It was a
familiar thing to be warring thus in the darkness: Neither Harold nor
Pete missed the light now. They were carried back to no less furious
battles, fought in dark caverns under the sea; murder flamed in their
hearts and fire ran riot in their blood.
They were no longer conscious of time; already it was as if they had
struggled thus through the long roll of the centuries. It was hard to
remember what had been the cause of the fight. It didn't matter now,
anyway; the only issue left was the life of their adversary. To kill,
to tear their enemies' hearts from their warm breasts and their arteries
from their throats,--this was all that any of the three could remember
now. It was true that Bill kept his adversaries away from Virginia's
corner as well as he could, but he did it by instinct rather than by
conscious planning. He had not hated Harold in these months past, but
had only regarded him with contempt; but hate came to him fast enough in
those first moments of battle.
Once, reeling across the cabin, they encountered soft flesh that tried
to escape from beneath their feet; at first Bill thought it was Joe,
returned to consciousness. But in an instant he knew the truth. "Go
back to your corner. Virginia," he commanded.
For some reason that he could not guess, she had seen fit to crawl forth
from her shelter; whether or not she returned to it he couldn't tell.
There was no chance to warn her again. His foes were upon him.
This was not a silent fight, at first. So that they would not attack
each other, Harold and Pete cried out often, to reveal their location
and to signal a combined attack against Bill. In the instants that he
was free from Bill's arms and he knew that his confederate was out of
range, Harold fired blindly with his pistol. Their bodies crashed
against the wall, broke the furniture into kindling at their feet; they
snarled their hatred and their curses.
Bill fought like a giant, a might of battle upon him never known before.
He would hurl away one, then whirl to face the other; his fists would
lash out, his mighty shoulders would wrench. More than once their
combined attack hurled him to the floor, but always he was able to
regain his feet. Once he seized Harold's wrist, and twisting it back
forced him to drop the pistol. But Pete's interference prevented him
from breaking his arm.
Steadily Harold and Pete were learning to work together. They were used
to the darkness now; Pete obeyed the white man's shouts. Two against one
was never a fair fight, and they knew that by concerted action they
could break him down.
One lucky blow sent Pete spinning to the floor, and Bill's strong arms
hurled Harold after him. Just for a fraction of an instant he stood
braced and alone in the center of the cabin. For the instant a silence,
deep and appalling past all words, fell over the room. But Harold's
voice quickly shattered it.
"Up and at him Pete!" he cried, hoarse with fury. They both sprang upon
him again.
Both were fortunate in securing good holds, and as they came from
opposite sides, Bill found it impossible to hurl them off. Both of his
foes recognized their great chance; if they could retain their hold only
for a moment they could break him and beat him down. Harold also knew
that this was the moment of crisis. All three contestants seemed to
sweep to the fray with added fury. Bill was drawing on his reserve
strength--the battle could only last a few minutes longer.
They fought in silence now. They did not waste precious breath on
shouts or curses. There were no pistol shots, no warnings; only the
sound of troubled breathing against the shock of their bodies as they
reeled against the walls. Bill was fighting with all his might to keep
his feet.
But the tower that was his body fell at last. All three staggered,
reeled, then crashed to the floor. Pete had managed to wiggle from
underneath and, his hold yet unbroken, struggled at Bill's left side;
Harold was on top. But for all that he lay prone, Bill was not conquered
yet. With his flailing arms he knocked aside the vicious blows that
Harold aimed at his face; he tore Pete's grasp from his throat. He
fought with a final, incredible might. And now he was breaking their
holds to climb once more upon his feet.
Then--above the sound of their writhing bodies--Virginia heard Pete
exclaim. It was a savage, a murderous sound, and anew degree of terror
swept through her. But she didn't cry out. She had her own plans.
"Hold him--just one instant!" Pete cried. The breed had remembered
his knife. It was curious that he hadn't thought of it before.
He took it rather carefully from his holster. The two men were
threshing on the floor by now, Harold in a desperate effort to keep his
enemy down, and there was plenty of time. Pete's hand fumbled in his
pocket. In his cunning and his savagery he realized that the supreme
opportunity for victory was at hand; but he must take infinite pains.
He didn't want to run the risk of slaying his own confederate. His hand
found a match; he raised his knife high. The match cracked, then flamed
in the darkness.
But it was not to be that that murderous blow should go home. He had
forgotten Bill's lone ally,--the girl that had seemed so crushed and
helpless a few minutes before. She had not remained in the safe corner
where Bill had thrust her, and she had had good reasons. The price that
she paid was high, but it didn't matter now. She had crawled out to
find her pistol that Joe's hand had let fall, and just before Pete had
lighted his match her hand had encountered it on the floor.
It seemed to leap in her hand as the match flamed. It described a blue
arc; then rested, utterly motionless, for a fraction of an instant. For
that same little time all her nervous forces rallied to her aid; her
eyes were remorseless and true over the sights.
The pistol shot rang in the silence. The knife dropped from Pete's
hand. She had shot with amazing accuracy, straight for the little
hollow in his back that his raised arm had made. He turned with a look
of ghastly surprise.
Then he went on his face, creeping like a legless thing toward the door.
With a mighty effort Bill rolled Harold beneath him.
The battle was short thereafter. Harold had never been a match for
Bill, unaided. The latter's hard fists lashed into his face, blow after
blow with grim reports in the silence. Harold's resistance ceased; his
body quivered and lay still. Remembering Virginia Bill leaped to his
feet.
But Harold was not quite unconscious. But one impulse was left,--to
escape; and dumbly he crawled to the door. Pete had managed to open it;
but he crawled past Pete's body, strangely huddled and still, just
beyond the threshold. Then he paused in the snow for a last, savage
expression of his hate.
But it was just words. No weapon remained in his hands. "I'll get you
yet, you devil!" he screamed, almost incoherently. "I'll lay in wait
and kill you--you can't get away! The wolves have got your grizzly
meat--you can't go without food."
His voice was shrill and terrible in the silence of the winter night.
Even in the stress and inward tumult that was the reaction of the
battle, Bill could not help but hear. He didn't doubt that the words
were true: he realized in an instant what the loss of the grizzly
flesh would mean. But his only wish was that he had killed the
man when he had him helpless in his hands.
He remembered Joe then, and listened for any sound from him. He heard
none, and like a man in a dream he felt his way to the lifeless form
beside the wall. He seized the shoulders of the breed's coat, dragged
him like a sack of straw, and as easily hurled his body through the
doorway into the drifts. Two bodies lay there now. But only the
coyotes, seekers of the dead, had interest in them.
He turned, then stood swaying slightly, in the doorway. No wind stirred
over the desolate wastes without. The cabin was ominously silent. He
could hear his own troubled breathing; but where there was no stir, no
murmur from the corner where he had left Virginia. A ghastly terror,
unknown in the whole stress of the battle, swept over him.
"Virginia," he called. "Where are you?"
From the dark, far end of the cabin he heard the answer,--a voice low
and tremulous such as sometimes heard from the lips of a sick child.
"Here I am, Bill," she replied. "I'm hit with a stray shot--and I
believe--they've killed me."