Half blinded by the onslaught, the other clinched, instinctively, with his foe, and a grim battle began.
Back and forth it raged, across the bit of sandy floor at the base of the rocks, each man striving for possession of the tool.
Broome was powerfully built, and he had rested from the agony of the day before. He was the heavier of the two, and he fought with an insane fury that pressed his antagonist back against the cliff before Gard had well recovered from the shock of his attack.
Fiercely, silently the two struggled until Gard, momentarily securing the mattock, flung it afar upon the sand. Broome gave a shriek of savage rage, and would have sprung for it, but the other man closed upon him and caught him with one powerful arm about the neck, pressing his face earthward.
Desperately Broome grasped the other’s body, striving to break that iron hold, but Gard’s blood was up, and he “saw red,” as his free arm rained blows upon the other’s back.
Strain as he would Broome could not break free, nor trip his foe. The fellow seemed made of iron, and the hammering of that fearful fist was driving the breath from his body. He gathered his forces for a last effort, but his breath already came in gasps, and he sank in a heap upon the sand.
Gard hauled him to his feet, fiercely.
“Stand up!” he shouted, as he faced him about.
Broome would have fallen again, but Gard upheld him, forcing him forward over the rocks, back toward camp. Once he turned, as if he would strike, but a glance at that fierce, set face herded him on again, cowed and stumbling.
“What are ye goin’ ter do to me?” he demanded, at last, tortured by Gard’s silence. There was no reply.