"Quiet, boys!"
He stepped forth, unarmed, dominant, terrible. Norton, his chest heaving and with a wild riot of sheer hatred surging high in his brain, watched the man as there fell deep silence—a silence broken only by the groaning of wounded men and the peaceful ripple of water.
"Surrender, Mr. Norton," said Duval calmly. "You——"
"Dog!" snarled Norton, mad with rage and with the pain of his wounds and bruises. "Yellow dog!"
And dropping his knife, he sprang out upon Duval, for there was no thought of surrender in his mind. A single yell of warning from the circle of men; then the two were fighting like madmen with their bare fists.
Try as he would, Norton found his blows blocked, while Duval's fists hammered home upon him terrifically. Slowly his rage cooled of its flaming fury, and with new caution he realized that this was no common adversary. He staggered into a clinch, desperate.
A moment more, and Norton felt savage joy as he began to drive his fists into Duval's face and felt himself slowly mastering the other. Back went Duval—and back again, with Norton sending in relentless blows, while the lawyer fought back in grim silence.
Then a sudden low growl swept the watching circle as Duval reeled and clutched out at the air. Too late, Norton saw a rifle thrust between his legs. He tripped, and as he did so three men flung themselves on him bodily.
At last he went to the deck—pummelled, covered with slight knife-wounds, but still fighting savagely. Little by little they pinned him down, drew hands and feet together, bound him fast.
Brookfield's horse-boat was captured.