The lawyer and the officer marched away and were effaced by the fog.
“It’s too bad it ain’t a clear day,” remarked the spokesman to the crew. “We’d prob’ly be able to see the injunction that’s guarding this dam. But I ain’t going to let a lawyer tell me about anything I can’t see.”
“But there’s a thing I can see,” called one of the men who had gone skirmishing in the direction which the attorney and sheriff had taken. “Here’s a Comas crowd strung along the wings o’ the dam. I can see what they’re lugging! Come on, men! It’s a cant-dog, pick-pole fight.”
The attackers went into the fray with a yell.
The defenders of the dam were on higher ground; some of them thrust with the ugly weapons, others swung the strong staves and fenced. There was the smash of wood against wood, the clatter of iron. Men fell and rolled and came up! They who were bleeding did not seem to mind.
“They’re backing up,” yelled one of the Flagg crew. “Damn ’em, they’re getting ready to run, as usual!”
There did seem to be some sort of concerted action of retreat on the part of the defenders.
“Look out for tricks,” counseled Vittum, getting over the guard of an antagonist and felling him.
A few moments later the line of the defense melted; the Comas men dodged somewhere into the fog. The assailants had won to the higher level of the dam’s wing.
And then that level melted, too!