Aulain thrust him aside with savage determination, and again faced Gerrard. “Are you coming outside?” he asked hoarsely.
“No, I am not. But don't try my patience too long, Aulain.”
“Will you come or not?” he almost shouted, and he drew back a step, amidst a hot, expectant silence.
“No, you are not in a condition to speak to any one, let alone fighting,” was the contemptuous answer.
“Then take that, you wretched cur!” and he swung his heavy whip across Gerrards face, cutting the flesh open from temple to chin, and sending him down upon the earth floor.
In an instant the maddened man was seized by Vale and another man, and borne to the ground. Then amidst oaths and curses, he was dragged outside, struggling like a demon, and carried to his horse, which was tied up to the fence. He was hoisted up into the saddle, and at once tried to take his pistol from its pouch, but the diggers took it away, and then seized his Winchester carbine.
“Here, take your reins, you murderous dog!” cried Vale, putting them into his hands.
“Stand back, boys, and well start him off to blazes.”
“He has a Derringer inside his shirt,” cried one of the men, “I've seen it.”
“Let him keep it,” and Vale raised the whip which he had torn from Aulain's hand, and gave the horse a stinging cut on the flank, and with a snort of pain and terror the animal leapt forward into the darkness.