They grappled, and there in that enclosure formed by the mounds of earth on several sides the two began a furious hand to hand battle, the result of which long hung in doubt.
The Spaniard was no mean opponent, and fought with enraged fury. Clif's astounding exertions during the past hours had been enough to exhaust the strongest and sturdiest, and he was compelled to acknowledge to himself, as the battle progressed, that it had made inroads upon his strength.
Back and forth across the little enclosure the pair fought fiercely. Once Clif slipped and fell beneath his opponent; but an instant after he was upon his feet.
His keen eye followed his antagonist's every move. He was watching for a chance to deliver one blow that would settle the combat. Several times he had landed upon the Spaniard's head and face, inflicting severe punishment, but not enough.
At last the moment came. The opening presented itself in the Spaniard's guard, and with all the strength that was in him, Clif shot out his right hand. It went home. With a force that seemed to lift the fellow high into the air, his fist met the Spaniard's chin, and the latter fell backward to the ground.
It was a clean knockout. Breathing heavily, the fellow lay where he had fallen, unconscious of his surroundings.
Clif was panting from the exertion. He had received some punishment, and the wound in his arm was throbbing fiercely.
But he paused only long enough to see that the fellow would not give him further trouble, and then hurried toward the spot where the shell had rolled.
"I guess that'll hold you for a while," he muttered, looking at his fallen foe as he started away.
"But he'll come out of it after a time," he added. "Gorry! how my arm aches all the way up to the elbow."