“The Japs first! Into the river with them!”
“Steady, boys!” Aynsley’s voice rang out. “Hold them, saw gang A!”
A confused struggle began in the darkness and raged among the lumber stacks. Groups of shadowy figures grappled, coalesced into a fighting mass, broke apart, surged forward, and were violently thrust back. There was not much shouting and no shots were fired yet, but Clay was keenly watchful as he made his way from place to place, where resistance seemed weakest, and encouraged the defenders, who did not know him. With rude generalship he brought up men from the less threatened flank and threw them into action where help was needed; but he realized that the garrison was outnumbered and was being steadily pushed back.
They were, however, making a stubborn fight, and the conflict grew fiercer. Yells of rage and pain now broke through the sound of scuffling feet, stertorous breathing, and shock of blows; orders and threats were shouted, and Clay’s face grew stern when one or two pistols flashed. He had found a big iron bar and was satisfied with it, but if forced to shoot he would not miss, as he thought the rioters did.
A red glow leaped up from the end of a shed. The blaze spread quickly; there was a sharp crackling, louder than the turmoil it broke in upon, and a cloud of pungent smoke hung above the struggling men. Clay could see their faces now: Japs and white men bunched together, but slowly giving ground, with his son in the midst of the surging, swaying cluster that bore the brunt of the attack.
It struck Clay, as he paused for a moment, that the little, sallow-faced aliens were remarkably cool, though it must be obvious to them that they were not holding their own. He wondered whether they had some plan in reserve. There was, however, no time to ponder this, for a pistol flashed among the rioters. The group that Aynsley led gave back and then drove forward again with a savage rush, while hoarse shouts went up.
“Stand them off while we take him out! Sock the fellow with the pistol; he’s plugged the boss!”
Clay suddenly was filled with murderous fury. There was a good deal of the barbarian in him and he had led a hard, adventurous life. His son was shot. The brutes who had brought him down would suffer!
“I’m his father, boys!” he cried. “Follow me and drive the damned hogs into the river!”
The boldest closed in about him, a knot of determined men, small ranchers and prospectors who had long fought with flood and frost in the lonely hills. They were of sterner stuff than the city millhands, and, led by one who would go on until he dropped, they cleft the front of the mob like a wedge. The man with the pistol fired almost in their leader’s face, and missed; but Clay did not miss with the bar, and he trod on the fellow’s body as he urged on the furious charge.