Still, for a second or two, which might have proved fatal to him, Nasmyth had only his own resources to depend upon, and he did the one thing that was possible. The Canadian axe-haft is long, and he sprang straight in at the man. As he did so, the big blade came down, and flashed by a hand’s breadth behind his shoulders. He felt a burning pain on the outside of his thigh, but that did not seem to matter, and he was clutching at his opponent’s throat when he was bodily flung aside. Then, as he fell against the log wall, he had a momentary glimpse of Jake bent backwards in Mattawa’s arms. There was a brief floundering scuffle as the two men reeled towards the black opening in the wall, and after that a splash in the darkness outside, and Mattawa stepped back into the room alone.
“The d––– hog is in the flume,” he said.
That did not appear to trouble any of the others. The sluice was not deep, and, though it was certainly running hard, it was scarcely likely that a stalwart Bushman would suffer greatly from being washed along it.
“Guess it will cool him off,” said one of them. “If it doesn’t, and he comes back to make a fuss, we’ll heave him in again.”
Then they turned and looked at Nasmyth, who sat down somewhat limply on a cider keg. The blood, which was running down his leg, made a little pool at his feet. Mattawa, who crossed over to him, asked for a knife, and when a man produced one, he slit Nasmyth’s trousers up to the hip. Then he nodded.
“Boys,” he said, “one of you will slip out kind of quiet and bring Mr. Gordon along. Two more of you will stand in the door there and not let anybody in.”
They obeyed him, and Mattawa looked down at Nasmyth again.
“I guess the thing’s not serious,” he commented.
“Well,” said Nasmyth ruefully, “in one way, I think it is. You see, store clothes are dear, and this is the only pair of trousers I’ve got.”