“George Hilliard, why don’t you break every bone in that insolent scoundrel’s body?”
Up to this time the thick-set man had maintained a discreet silence. Now he felt called upon to defend himself against the imputation of cowardice, implied in Larkin’s question. So he replied valiantly:
“That’s just what I’m going to do if he don’t make himself scarce around here in about ten seconds.”
These words fell upon Ross Douglas’s ears and roused him to instant fury. He had borne much—he could bear no more. Whirling in his tracks, he dealt Hilliard a blow that felled him to the earth.
For a few seconds the prostrate man glared confusedly around him. Then with cat-like quickness he sprang to his feet and threw his gun to his shoulder. He was insane with rage. The light of murder twinkled in his small pig-like eyes. His finger was upon the trigger of his weapon. But he encountered Ross’s look of steadfast courage—and hesitated.
“Shoot him!” Larkin bellowed. “Shoot him in self-defense!”
Hilliard bent his head and squinted along the gleaming barrel of his rifle. Douglas whipped out his knife and sprang toward his adversary. But quick as were his movements, he would have been too late had not a trusty friend been at hand.
With a low, fierce growl Duke bounded from the underbrush, where he had been crouching, and landed full upon Hilliard’s chest. The gun cracked, but the bullet sped harmlessly over Ross’s head. Amy ran screaming toward the cabin. Her father, with a muttered oath, strode toward the scene of conflict. Duke sought to fasten his fangs in Hilliard’s throat. Gun, man, and dog went to the ground together.
“Loose him, Duke! Loose him!” Douglas commanded.
The hound obeyed, and crept whining to his master’s feet. Blood was streaming from Hilliard’s shoulder, where the dog had set his teeth.