AS IT came through the gloom, this maddened creature, with its uncouth, hopping run, swinging its long arms from side to side.
The man dropped back into his former position, feet raised, arm held ready to strike with the knife.
Before it reached him, it dropped forward, without in the least pausing, and, propelled by both arms and legs, shot in a great, froglike leap through the air.
The shock, as it landed upon him, drove Ed Hardin’s knees back against his chest. His right arm, held ready to strike with the knife, was pinned and twisted painfully.
The knife slipped from his hand. A long arm shot forward and talon-like fingers clutched his hair. With his legs doubled back as they were, once more he was seized in that giant embrace, and he felt that his knees were being pressed into his chest until it soon must crush in like a shattered eggshell.
Then consciousness left him.
... When his senses slowly returned, he became aware of lights flashing and horses stamping, and the sound of men’s voices.
Jonas Keil was speaking, and Ed had the rare experience of hearing himself discussed after he was thought to be dead.
“—’Most on my bended knees ter git ’im not ter do it. But he said he wouldn’t feel right ter let Death run loose unhindered, long as he was livin’ an’ with strength ter fight. An’ when he rid out single-handed an’ alone, the bravest man what ever drawed breath was kilt.”
From his position, he judged that he had been placed on the grass at the side of the road. Near him was someone who, from an occasional quivering intake of breath, seemed to have been sobbing.