The jagged point of the spear pierced his side, but he plowed on, forcing the other back up the slope by sheer fury of the onslaught.
Again they were at close grips, gouging, tearing, surging back and forth across the slope. Once DuChane gained a strangle hold on Marlin's throat. Fingers, hard and cruel as talons, sank deep into his windpipe. Mustering all his energy, Marlin broke the hold by forcing the other back against the rock wall and pounding his head against the jagged surface.
They broke apart, Marlin gasping for breath, DuChane shaking his shaggy head to clear it. Then, with the fury of desperation, Marlin stumbled back to the fray.
This time DuChane met the attack by hurling his body down upon him with the force of a catapult.
They hurtled down the slope together, but Marlin was beneath, and the crash of landing knocked the breath from his body.
DuChane scrambled for his spear, but when Marlin tried to rise, he found his muscles too weak to obey the demand of his will. He was faint from loss of the blood which gushed from his torn side, and the pain stabbing up from his ankle was rising to the threshold of consciousness with unbearable intensity.
With glazing eyes, he looked up to see DuChane poised for the kill.
The spear-arm hesitated. Through a throbbing haze of waning consciousness, Marlin heard the other man's voice.
"I don't want to kill you—Dave. What about it? Will you go your way and leave us in peace?"
Then blackness blotted out the scene.