A glance was enough for King to realize fully what was wrong. He could not see McCartney anywhere among the men, but Cherry had told him enough—if telling had been at all necessary. Back a little from the struggling mass stood six or eight men, looking on quietly and talking among themselves. King recognized them as some of his own men, upon whom he thought he could rely for support. In a moment he was standing in the middle of the group.
"What are you standing here for?" he asked. "Come on—get into it!"
In a flash they were into the struggle, King leading them as they bored their way through in an effort to reach the corral. King's plan was clear in his own mind. Once with his back to the walls of the corral, he could call his men one by one about him, and having displaced their opponents, drive them off by united effort, break up their organization, and beat them into submission.
The plan, easily enough conceived, was not so easily carried into effect. King's appearance, it is true, had raised the spirits of the men who were fighting together to settle the scores they had accumulated during weeks of growing hatred for McCartney and his crowd. But as their spirits rose, the determination of their opponents became more grim as they saw themselves faced with possible defeat where they had never dreamed of anything but an easy victory. The fight became more and more furious every minute. Whereas before King's coming they had fought without much bad temper and with little evidence of losing control of themselves, now they struck out madly and grappled with the fierceness of men in a battle where life and death depended upon the outcome. They had fought only with their fists before. Now sticks and clubs began to make their appearance as if by magic, and in many cases the fight was for the possession of weapons.
Once King saw the flash of a knife between two men who were struggling near him. Turning quickly he struck the fellow who held it, sending him to the ground, where he sprawled clumsily in an effort to escape being trampled under the feet of the fighters. The knife had fallen to the ground, and King, placing his foot on it for a moment, waited while he beat back a struggling pair who were close to him. Then stooping quickly he picked up the knife and threw it into the river. No sooner had he thrown it away than the owner pushed his way towards King and accosted him for having attacked him. He was one of King's men.
King pushed him back angrily.
"Let them start that," he cried in a voice that rose above the din. "Get in there!"
He pointed to where a group of his men were now massed against their opponents and were driving them back slowly from the corral.
Then his eyes shifted suddenly in a new direction. Pushing his way through the crowd towards King, was McCartney, his huge shoulders towering above the other men, his dark face serious and totally divested of its usual cynical smile. Not far behind him, on the outskirts of the crowd, stood Old Silent.
King wasted no time on the men about him. If McCartney's anxiety to reach him were greater than his own, there was no indication of the fact in the eagerness with which King pressed towards him, pushing first one and then another out of the way as he went forward.