It was a forlorn hope. Though for a time the men could not be stopped, the rioters closed in behind them, cutting off support. They could not keep up the rush, and presently they gained only a foot or two by desperate struggling. Clay knew their position was now dangerous. The strikers’ passions were unloosed and no mercy would be shown; but this did not matter so long as he could leave his mark on some of his foes before they got him down. He fought with a cold fury that helped him to place his blows, and the long bar made havoc among the strikers; but soon he was hemmed in, with his back to a lumber pile, and he knew the end was near. Bruised, dazed, and bleeding, he stood wielding his weapon and sternly watching for a chance to strike.
Suddenly the crowd which pressed upon him gave back and he heard a rush of feet and alarmed shouts. There was a yell that was not made by white men; short, active figures, lithe and fierce as cats, fell with resistless fury upon the retreating foe. The retreat turned into a rout: the strikers were running for their lives, with a swarm of aliens in savage pursuit.
Clay saw that they outnumbered all the Japanese at the mill; but where they came from was not a matter of much consequence. He must rouse himself to take part in the chase, and exact full vengeance from the fugitives. The rioters fled along the bank, scrambled across the log booms, and took to the water; and Clay laughed harshly as he drove some of the laggards in. Whether they could swim or not was their own affair.
He went back to the office with an anxious heart, and a few minutes later he stood beside a camp bed in his son’s quarters. He had lost his hat, his city coat was torn to rags, and his white shirt was stained with blood from the gash in his cheek; but he was unconscious of all this. Aynsley lay there, breathing feebly, with a drawn, white face and a small blue mark on his uncovered breast, while an ominous red froth gathered about his lips.
Clay placed his hand on the damp forehead, and the boy half opened his eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” his father asked.
“Sure!” Aynsley smiled feebly. “You said you wouldn’t fail me. I suppose you whipped them?”
He turned his head and coughed, and Clay beckoned Jevons.
“Help me raise his shoulders a bit, and then I guess we’d better put some wet bandages on him. As they’ve cut the ’phone wires, send somebody to the nearest ranch for a horse to bring a doctor from Vancouver.”
“I’ve done so,” Jevons told him.