Too late! They were upon him, three of them; that effort to shove her off had lost him his fighting chance. Mad with battlelust and moonshine whisky, they dragged him back and bore him down, all three hurtling in upon him bodily, careless of his blows, so that only they might land blows upon him. Slipping on the stones, he lost balance, went down, was stamped into the knee-deep water—
That was all he knew, for a time.
Presently, half strangled and exhausted, Hardrock came to himself again. This time he found ankles and arms fast lashed by men who knew how to handle ropes. Beside him lay one of the Greeks, dark features masked by blood, beaten senseless and bound; the other Greek lay farther away, muttering low curses.
Hardrock realized that some terrible sound had dragged him to life, and now it came once more—a low scream of agony. His head cleared slowly, as he visualized the scene before him. In the circle of firelight lay Hughie Dunlevy, still unconscious, and by him sat his brother Connie, weak and white and rather drunk, his arm all swathed in crimsoned bandages.
The other four men, by the fire, held the frantically struggling figure of Marks, and were shoving his feet into the red embers. From the man broke another scream, this time rising shrill with pain and horror.
“Quit it! Quit it! I’ll tell!”
“Then talk, ye domned murderer,” growled Jimmy Basset. “Pull him out and give him a drink to make him talk, lads—”
The groaning Marks waited for no drink. “It was them Greeks done it!” he cried desperately. “I wasn’t along with ’em, I tell ye! It was them two done it!”
“All right,” snapped Bassett, lurching a little as he glared down at the captive. “And what about this Hardrock felly? Is he your boss?”
“I don’t know him,” returned the unfortunate Marks.