And now in blind consuming rage the victims began to strike. Their eyes were wide and in the desperateness of the moment, friendship turned to un-dying hate.
Each proved an expert with the knife. Their blades flashed in the sunlight whose rays slanted down through window and door.
It was thrust and parry as they leaped from side to side, forgetful of the wounds that the bandits had inflicted on them in the earlier battle.
Now and then a bowie would come away stained half way to its hilt.
Not a word was spoken.
The labored breathing of the combatants and the chilling clash of blades, were the only sounds that broke in upon the sweet-scented stillness of the mountain morning.
The scene held the spectators breathless. Even the great outlaw found himself interested in the desperate battle.
Blood was over everything, but the desperadoes heeded it not. The rancher's eyes were strained and the eyelids, drawn far up against the forehead, never once closed in a wink.
The blade of one antagonist went through the other's scalp, and a crimson stream spurted half way across the room. The faces of each were scarred with crimson rivulets that were constantly fed from the blood springs above.