They stood glaring at each other, like brutes at bay. The older man was cool and collected; the younger, angry and excited. Each was striving to stare the other out of countenance; but neither shrank from the ordeal.
“Stand aside!” Ross cried chokingly.
“I will not.”
“The consequences be upon your own head, then!”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, ere Douglas leaped forward and grappled with his antagonist. Around and around the small, dark room they whirled, each striving to trip and throw the other. Douglas was the stronger, the more active; Scar Face, the cooler, the more skillful. They were evenly matched.
Duke snarled viciously, and ran around the two combatants, seeking an opportunity to leap at Bradford’s throat. Both men were breathing heavily. The terrific exercise and excessive strain were telling upon them. But the younger man’s wind was the better—was in his favor. Besides, each moment he was growing cooler, more determined, while his antagonist, seeing defeat staring him in the face, was losing his presence of mind.
Of a sudden, Douglas swung Bradford clear of the ground, and with stunning force dashed him against the log wall. Scar Face’s hold relaxed, and he dropped to the floor, senseless. In a moment the dog was upon the helpless man, and would have buried his fangs in the throbbing throat, had not Ross panted:
“Down, Duke; out of the way!”
The hound sullenly obeyed, growling fiercely. Douglas leaned against the wall and breathed hard for some seconds. Then he stooped and carefully examined his fallen foe.
“He’s only stunned; thank God I didn’t have to kill him!” he ejaculated.