Hester was surprised at the expression of relief on Chucky Jack’s face.
“Ye was skeered of my hands?” he grunted, thrusting tentatively.
“I was afraid,” confessed Sevier, stepping to one side and forcing him toward the bushes. “Just as I’m afraid of a mad-wolf’s bite. But this is clean sport. I like it.”
Hester believed him and woefully regretted his shift to the knives. But he grew optimistic as he observed Sevier kept darting glances about, a dangerous practice for a knife-fighter, and exulted:
“Gittin’ sick, eh? Tryin’ to find a chance to sneak out, eh?”
“Hardly that,” corrected Sevier, scoring him in the forearm. “I had planned to take you alive. Now I’ve decided to kill you; and as Miss Tonpit is recovering her senses I’m just looking for a place where you can die without disturbing her.”
As he spoke he thrust and slashed and drove the bully back to the fringe of bushes.
Hester’s face glistened with sweat. Did he dare shift his gaze aside, he believed he would behold cowled Death waiting for him. Then there rang a long-drawn cry that caused the combatants to throw up their heads and for a moment to neglect their grim business.
“Elsie-e-e! Oh, Elsie-e-e!” called the voice, and Sevier heard the girl stir behind him.
For a moment the borderer relaxed the pressure of his attack, and with a loud yell Hester leaped backward and threw his knife and jumped into the bushes. The knife, thrown blindly, landed haft first between Sevier’s eyes and confused him for a second. Before he could pursue the bully the girl’s name was shouted again, and the girl, now on her knees, faintly answered: