But steadily the giant frame of Tex was worn down, and his hard breathing and husky gasps told of the effort he was making to keep the battle at even odds.
The scout, on the contrary, was a man of iron endurance. After ten minutes of nerve-wracking struggle, he was apparently as fresh as when he had begun the fight.
“Yield!” panted the scout.
“Give up an’ stretch a rope, hey?” wheezed Tex; “not me!”
For certain reasons, later to be explained, the scout wanted to capture Tex uninjured, or practically so. But some rough work was necessary, and the chance for it came as Tex finished his defiance.
Several times the pair had weaved about on the brink of the wall. As the final word left the ruffian’s lips, he and the scout were again in that position.
Calling upon all his strength, the scout lifted the outlaw bodily and flung him backward. Tex’s hands were torn away from the scout’s buckskin shirt, and he keeled over backward, down the slope.
The big fellow fell heavily, and began rolling and bounding down the steep descent. The gloom swallowed up his rolling figure, and then the rattle of rocks and loosened débris suddenly ceased.
The scout stood for a second, breathing hard and looking downward into the darkness; then, giving vent to a sharp whistle, he started down the bank.
The whistle was returned from close at hand—from part way up the slope, in fact—and was followed by the voice of Tenny.