Taken utterly by surprise, Denis went back and the rifle was knocked across the shack with a clatter. Cowley’s fist drove home on his cheek, knocking him into the wall; but as the ruffian followed, Denis flung himself to one side and scrambled up.
A fierce rush of anger swept from his mind all thought of the revolver at his belt, and he went into the man with both fists, his blue eyes blazing. He landed right and left to the face, then went staggering away, groaning, as Cowley’s heavy boot took him squarely in the side. Cowley was after him with a roar.
That foul kick infuriated Denis as nothing else had the power to madden him, and when the ruffian tried the same tactics again his anger drove new life into his veins. Disdaining to employ such tricks himself, he lifted a blow through the other’s guard that went straight to the mouth and sent Cowley reeling back with broken teeth. On into him went Denis, placing blow after blow, his lips clenched in silent fury and his fists beating a tattoo on the man’s face.
Cowley lurched into the wall, cursing; flung back, met a smashing left hook that rocked him on his heels, and then swung himself bodily into a clinch. At the same instant, Denis stepped into a bearskin heaped loosely on the floor. Endeavoring to get clear of Cowley’s hug, the bearskin tripped and brought him down on the floor—underneath.
The breath was knocked out of Denis by the impact. He lay gasping and helpless while Cowley, above, hit him twice heavily. Then the ruffian gripped Denis by the throat in an effort at systematic choking. Aware of his advantage, without pity, he was deliberately trying to get Denis out of the way.
Vainly and ineffectually Denis struck upward—a man flat on his back cannot hit much of a blow. Cowley tore at him with snarling oaths, the great fingers digging into his throat until it seemed that his flesh was coming asunder. His breath was stopped.
With all things going black, and the black changing to specks of fire that danced through his brain, a final coherent thought came to him. It was the recollection of his revolver.
His fumbling hands went to the lanyard in blind desperation. Even in that moment Denis fought against himself; he must not fire! He must take Cowley alive, he must bring in this man a prisoner. With that great thought pounding against his brain, Denis pulled out the gun and struck upward with it wildly.
Cowley caught the full effect of that blow. The fore sight of the revolver took him just above the temple and ripped to the bone. Again Denis struck out blindly, and again the heavy revolver landed, almost in the same place.
Those two blows were enough. Denis felt the terrible grip on his throat relax, and felt Cowley’s weight tumble away from him. Little more than conscious himself, he rolled over and dragged himself up by the logs of the wall.