Benton moved forward slowly with raised hand.
“Sh-sh!” he hissed warningly.
Fisk halted irresolutely. Scotty’s horse fooled him completely.
“What’s up?” he growled.
Ellis, his powerful right arm swinging free, ranged up alongside as if to have speech with the other. Then suddenly, and with an uncanny swiftness, he silently and viciously struck for the angle of the big man’s jaw.
The blow crashed home, and the great body went lurching sideways out of the saddle. Like a flash the Sergeant swung down off his horse and jumped for the rustler, dragging out another pair of handcuffs as he did so.
His haste was his undoing, for he got wedged in between the frightened, jostling horses and knocked sprawling. The next instant a huge, bear-like shape that made horrible, beast-like noises in its throat, fell upon him and clutched his arms. Frenziedly he writhed under that terrible grip.
“Barney!” he yelled. “Oh, Bar—!”
But his cry changed to a gurgle as the other’s hold shifted to his throat. With desperate efforts he fought off the choking clasp and, wriggling somehow from under his enemy’s smothering weight, scrambled with reeling brain to his feet.
Big George had arisen also, snorting and grinding his teeth with mad, demoniacal passion, and Ellis instinctively guessed that he was fumbling for his gun. Entirely forgetful of his own weapon in the Berserker rage that possessed him, the Sergeant sprang at the giant rustler, hitting out with great smashing punches to the jaw and stomach, that sent Fisk staggering back and gave him no opportunity to draw. With a snarl like a wild beast, he closed again with his slighter antagonist and, as the two men swayed hither and thither, Benton became dimly conscious of Gallagher’s form and voice added to the melee.