Several feet away stood the giant porter, calmly whetting the huge weapon given him by Mori. Farther up the ravine stood the Irishman, Patrick Cronin. The man grinned impudently on seeing the newcomers, then he turned and disappeared behind a mass of underbrush.
"After him!' shouted Nattie, riding headlong into the valley.
"Hold!"
The abrupt warning came from Sumo. He had strode in the way with one hand raised.
"What do you mean?" demanded Mori. And as he spoke he leveled his revolver at the challenging figure standing in the middle of the "gut."
"Don't shoot him, excellency," exclaimed Sumo, imploringly. "That is Raiko, the thug. I knew him in Yokohama. He did me an injury once. Now, I claim satisfaction."
"What nonsense is this?" shouted Nattie. "Would you delay us, man?"
"It will not take long," replied Sumo, with a scowl directed toward Raiko. "I'll promise you his head in the song of a stork. See! I commence."
He sprang forward, and with great agility threw himself upon Raiko. The latter uttered a shrill cry, seemingly of exultation and defiance, and in the twinkling of an eye the ancient enemies were engaged in what evidently promised to be mortal combat.
Human nature is not proof against the thrill and excitement of war. Much as we deplore fighting, there is something in the clash of arms that fascinates us. From the glorious spectacle of marshaled armies to the duel between individuals, there is a charm not to be resisted by mankind of any degree.