The Son of his Father

by Ridgwell Cullum

He was right now, he knew. The hills about him were growing in height and ruggedness. The corrals were only a few miles on, and Sunset was racing down the track as if he were aware of the threatening danger to the girl whom he had so often carried on his back. But even if he were he was utterly unprepared for the furious thrashing of his present rider's heels which came as they were approaching one great shaggy hill to the south of them, in answer to a thin, high-pitched shrill for "Help!"

Gordon heard and understood. He had been right, after all, and a terrible panic and fury assailed him. Sunset was racing now, with his barrel low to the ground. Then as they came into the shadow of the hill the faithful creature felt the bit in his mouth jar suddenly and painfully, and he nearly sank on to his haunches.

Gordon was out of the saddle and rushing headlong like some rage-maddened bull.

Something had happened, and Hazel, in a partial daze, scarcely understood quite what it was. All she knew was that she was no longer struggling desperately in the arms of a man, with his hideous face thrust towards hers with obvious intention. She had fought as she had never dreamed of having to fight in all her life, and in her extremity she had shrilled again and again for "Help!" which, had she thought, she would have known was miles from the lonely spot where she was struggling. Then had happened that something she could not understand. She only knew that she was no longer struggling, and that hideous, coarse, passion-lit face had vanished from before her terrified eyes.

She had heard a voice, a familiar voice, hoarse with passion. The words it had uttered were the foulest blasphemy, such words as only a man uses when in the heat of battle and his desire is to kill. Then had passed that nightmare face from before her eyes.

After some moments her mental faculties became less uncertain, and with their clearing she became aware of a confusion of sounds. She heard the sound of blows and the incessant shuffling of feet through the tall prairie grass. She looked about her.

All in a minute she was on her feet, her eyes wide and staring with an expression half of terror, half of the wildest excitement. A fight was going on—a fight in which six feet three of science was arrayed against lesser stature but equal strength and a blend of animal fury which yearned to kill.

David Slosson came at his hated adversary in lunging rushes and with all his weight and muscle, hoping to clinch and reduce the battle to the less scientific condition of a "rough-and-tumble" as it is known only in America. Once he could achieve a definite clinch he knew that the advantage would lie with him. He knew the game of "chew and gouge" as few men knew it. He had learned it in his earlier days of lumber camps.

But Gordon had steadied himself from his first mad rush. It was the sight of Hazel in this man's clutches that had roused the desire for murder in his hot blood. Now it was different. Now it was a fight, a fight such as he could enjoy; and such were his feelings that he was determined it should be a fight to a finish, even if that finish should mean a killing.

He had no difficulty in punishing. His opponent's arms came at him wildly, while his own leads and counters struck home with smashes of a staggering nature. Twice he got in an upper-cut which set his man reeling, and in each case he smashed home his left immediately with all the force of his great shoulders. But David Slosson was tough. He seemed to thrive on punishment, and he came again and again.