Akerley employed all his skill of defense, for he realized in a moment that the big bushwhacker was a practical fighter and that he possessed agility as well as weight. In height and reach there was little to choose between them—but that little was in favor of the woodsman. Akerley’s left shoulder was still tender; and when he caught a swing on it like the kick of a mule he gasped with pain and realized that now was the time for him to do all that he knew how for all that he was worth. His left was useless for offense, but he managed to keep it up so that it looked dangerous. After a little more clever foot-work, which seemed to bewilder and madden the heaviest hitter on Indian River, he stepped close in and did his very best at the very top of his speed.
Akerley was glad to sit down and press his hands to his head. He felt dizzy and slightly sick with the pain in his shoulder and neck. The dizziness and nausea passed almost instantly; but he continued to sit limp and gaze contemplatively at the sprawled bulk of the heavy hitter.
Ned Tone lay flat on the moss of that woodland road. For a few minutes he lay face-down; then he turned slowly over onto his broad back, with grunts of pain. He opened one eye slowly, only to close it immediately.
“Feeling bad?” asked Akerley, drily.
“Kinder that way,” replied Tone, thickly.
“As if you’d had enough, perhaps?”
“Too durned much.”
“You’ll be right as you ever were in a little while, so cheer up. I didn’t hit you hard.”
“Ye hit me hard enough, I guess—but I ain’t complainin’.”
“You remember that I warned you.”