‘Now, Slavin, you’re beginning to be sorry; and now I am going to show you what you are made of.’ Graeme made one or two lightning passes, struck Slavin one, two, three terrific blows, and laid him quite flat and senseless. Keefe and Blaney both sprang forward, but there was a savage kind of growl.
‘Hold, there!’ It was old man Nelson looking along a pistol barrel. ‘You know me, Keefe,’ he said. ‘You won’t do any murder this time.’
Keefe turned green and yellow, and staggered back, while Slavin slowly rose to his feet.
‘Will you take some more?’ said Graeme. ‘You haven’t got much; but mind I have stopped playing with you. Put up your gun, Nelson. No one will interfere now.’
Slavin hesitated, then rushed, but Graeme stepped to meet him, and we saw Slavin’s heels in the air as he fell back upon his neck and shoulders and lay still, with his toes quivering.
‘Bon!’ yelled Baptiste. ‘Bully boy! Dat’s de bon stuff. Dat’s larn him one good lesson.’ But immediately he shrieked, Gar-r-r-r-e a vous!’
He was too late, for there was a crash of breaking glass, and Graeme fell to the floor with a long deep cut on the side of his head. Keefe had hurled a bottle with all too sure an aim, and had fled. I thought he was dead; but we carried him out, and in a few minutes he groaned, opened his eyes, and sank again into insensibility.
‘Where can we take him?’ I cried.
‘To my shack,’ said Mr. Craig.
‘Is there no place nearer?’