With a quick, convulsive movement of his lithe body Donald threw Hand from his back and sprang to his feet. Whirling quickly as the foreigner came toward him, he sent in a volley of blows to his opponent’s face. Hand staggered, but did not fall. His lips were cut and bleeding: his nose was broken; and he spat out several broken teeth. Any one of the blows landed was sufficient to send an ordinary man down for the count, but still the gargantuan giant came on.
In and out Donald flashed, his arms moving like steel pistons. Hand could not keep away from the punishing left hand of his lighter opponent. Men not trained in the science of boxing have no punishing power in their left hand, but depend solely on their right. Such was the case with Hand. His style did not vary for a moment. With head lowered between his powerful shoulders, he would bore in, swinging wildly in the hope of landing a lucky punch, or striving to get a hold on his adversary. Donald’s hand kept beating a tattoo on his rock-like jaw, but still Hand came forward, slowly and relentlessly as a steam-roller.
Crowding Donald back to the line of tense spectators, Hand rushed him into the scattering crowd and seized him in a rib-cracking embrace. Donald broke the hold, but not before the brute had butted him over the eye. With the blow Donald’s senses reeled and the blood gushed from a wide gash on his brow. A blow from the foreigner’s big fist then caught him over the heart and sent him staggering to his knees. With a curse the big man came after him.
Andy shouted hysterical words of advice.
Donald came slowly to his feet and mechanically side-stepped as Hand came stumbling toward him. Donald evaded him until his head cleared, and then summoned his remaining strength into one mighty blow that landed flush on his opponent’s midriff. The blond beast came to his knees with a dull grunt.
“Go after him!” yelled excited voices from the crowd.
Donald stepped forward with fist drawn back to strike the kneeling man, but his arm fell to his side and he shook his head. “Get up!” he commanded hoarsely.
Even the strikers gasped their appreciation of this honourable act. A murmur of applause came from both sides. The foreigner shook his shaggy blond head and came uncertainly to his feet and the sanguinary battle went on. Both men were tired. Hand’s breath was coming in short, choking gasps from his tortured lungs, and his face was one smear of blood. Donald’s left eye was closed; his lips were split, and the gash over his eye had covered his body with blood. His arms were tired from pounding the iron jaw of his adversary. The big logger’s strength was waning; the pounding administered by Donald was beginning to tell. But Donald was too weak to avoid his rushes. In a clinch Hand again butted him with his head.
Blackie, his eyes blazing, leaped forward with a peavy handle in his hand. “You fight fair, d—— you, or I’ll brain you!” he shouted. One of the strikers attempted to wrest the peavy handle from his hands. Blackie felled him with a blow of his fist. It looked for one tense moment as if there would be a general mêlée. There came sullen mutterings from the crowd of strikers.
“Back!” John Hiller’s voice rang out sharp and clear. “I’ll kill the first man that interferes!” The eyes shining over the long-barrelled Colt held a dangerous glint. The men who had moved to the centre backed away hurriedly.