Just then the gun cracked, and, with a wild yell of agony, the old man fell to the ground, writhing and moaning with pain. The bullet that had been intended for Marcos had passed through his own body. The youth saw the jet of flame-colored smoke, and regaining his feet, he drew a pistol and bounded forward to avenge the death of his companion.
The murderer, nothing loth, leaped from behind his covert, and with one report the two pistols were discharged. Marcos was untouched, and Sylva Cohecho received but a crease upon his shoulder, that acted as a spur. Before either could draw another weapon, they came into collision, and grappled with each other in a death struggle.
Although Sayosa was a powerful man, and had never before met his superior, his late illness had weakened him considerably, and he found, when too late, he was overmatched. The long arms of his antagonist seemed like bars of flexible steel, and wound around him, clasping him close to Cohecho’s body, with such force that it seemed as if his ribs were being crushed.
Still, he struggled manfully, and, by being so much taller than his foe and very active, he managed to keep his feet. But he was weakening, and his head began to swim. Cohecho saw his advantage, and did not fail to improve it. Under his enormous strength the tall, stalwart miner bent and swayed, until, with a dexterous trip, the murderer threw his antagonist, falling heavily upon him.
“Ah-ha! my game cock, your spurs are clipped now!” he growled, as he kneeled upon the senseless body, and, drawing his knife from his bootleg, tore open the shirt upon the young miner’s bosom, so as to gain a fair blow.
When Tomas Ventura fell, he thought that he was mortally wounded, but when he heard the struggle going on between his adopted son and Cohecho, he raised himself up on one hand, fearing lest Marcos, too, should be worsted. He saw enough to know that, unassisted, this would be the result and, dragging himself along by his hands, he managed to reach the guns, although the path was marked with his blood, and every motion wrung a groan from his lips.
He reached and cocked one of them, supporting it by resting his elbow upon the ground. Still he dared not fire, for the chances were as much in favor of his hitting Marcos as Cohecho. But then the combatants fell, and, as Sylva raised his knife to give the finishing blow, the escopette cracked and, true to its aim, an ounce ball crashed through the huge, shaggy head of the hunchbacked monster.
When the smoke shut off his view, Ventura swooned away, and for a long time all was blank. When he once more awoke to consciousness, he saw that Marcos was bending over him, and there were strangers in the glade. Then one of them approached and stood where the sunbeams fully revealed his features. Tomas Ventura glared at him wildly for a moment, and then shrieked:
“Holy Virgin, it is he!”
* * * * * * *