For the time Clifford had forgotten all but Bradley. Had he thought of Jimmie Kelly, he would now have resented Jimmie’s entrance.
All this while, whenever he could get a free arm, and dared risk a blow, Clifford was driving his fist into the glowering face before his own. He was not directing his blows in the hope of a knock-out; the range was too short for his fist to secure the crashing power for that; but he sent his fists at the lips, at the nose, at the eyes. He was working toward an end, now—working with a cold mind, though with fury unabated. He wanted those lips and nostrils to stream blood; he wanted those eyes to puff up and close. That of itself would not win him this gigantic struggle, since Bradley’s great strength would not be reduced thereby. But it might cause Bradley to lose all self-control, and in his huge, unguarded violence to give Clifford the opening for which he was working and waiting.
Clifford’s nerves and muscles were now remembering something of the skill that had been his when he had been a member of his university’s champion wrestling team. But he was carefully masking his plan. To Bradley he was apparently fighting the same kind of fight as his own—where brute strength triumphed in the end. And with Clifford there was the question whether his old skill at its best would avail against such superior strength as Bradley’s—and also the question, would he get the chance to use it?
At length there came a moment when Bradley thought that he had won. He gave Clifford a supreme bear-hug—more than once he had thus cracked strong men’s ribs. Clifford gave a gasping cry, his mouth fell loosely agape, his knees gave way, and he hung a dead weight in Bradley’s arms. Bradley was not primarily a fist-fighter, but he knew the value of a fist at the right moment.
“I’ve got you now—damn you!” he gasped fiercely, and loosened his right arm to draw back his fist to drive it into that flaccid face for the finishing blow.
But that blow was never delivered. With a lightning swiftness Clifford wrenched free from that too-confident left arm, half dropped to the floor—shot swiftly up with a backward leap that placed him behind Bradley, and as he came up his left arm darted under Bradley’s left shoulder, and his left hand crooked itself upon the back of Bradley’s bull neck. And in the same instant his right hand shot forward and caught Bradley’s right wrist.
Bradley gave a sneering laugh. “Want a kid’s horseback ride, do you!” Snarling contemptuously again, Bradley shook his heavy shoulders as a great dog might shake its dripping ruff. But Clifford did not fly off. Instead his body braced itself and his arms stiffened. Bradley’s head was driven sharply into his chest, his right arm was drawn out straight. He gave a grunt and set his muscles contemptuously against this unknown maneuver. Not yet did the man dream what was happening to him.
Grimly Clifford began to exert his strength, himself wondering if he could carry this thing through. This hold that he had upon Bradley was a hold that he had practiced in some fractional degree of its potentialities in friendly contests—but never had he seen that hold used upon a human being to the reputed limits of its effectiveness. He recalled the avarice of this man, the brutal cunning, the ruthlessness, the devil’s misuse of power—the thousands he had bled financially, the unnumbered ones he had “framed” and whose freedom he had coldly sworn away—and Clifford was aflame with retributive rage for all those whom this man in his might had made suffer. It was as though the strength of all these sufferers had been transferred into him. Certainly he never had had such might before. Slowly, inch by inch he drew Bradley’s right arm back and downward—Bradley straining with outstanding muscles and corded ligaments to withstand the terrific leverage.
The right arm reached its lowest arc, then Clifford began to bend it back and pull it up. A groan burst from Bradley—then, “Take a chance, Slim; for God’s sake, shoot!”
There was a report: a bullet grazed Clifford’s scalp—it must have missed Bradley’s head by inches. Clifford, raising his set face, his eyes bulging from his own effort, saw the dazed Slim on one elbow, aiming at him again. He swung Bradley about, so that his body was a better protection, and, heaving, panting, went on drawing that straining arm up—inch by inch.