Durand tried to close with him. An uppercut jolted him back. He plunged forward again. They grappled, knocking over chairs as they threshed across the room. When they went down Clay was underneath, but as they struck the floor he whirled and landed on top.
The man below fought furiously to regain his feet. Clay's arm worked like a piston rod with short-arm jolts against the battered face.
A wild heave unseated the Arizonan. They clinched, rolled over and bumped against the wall, Clay again on top. For a moment Durand got a thumb in his foe's eye and tried to gouge it out. Clay's fingers found the throat of the gang leader and tightened. Jerry struggled to free himself, catching at the sinewy wrist with both hands. He could not break the iron grip. Gasping for breath, he suddenly collapsed.
Clay got to his feet and waited for Durand to rise. His enemy rolled over and groaned.
"Had enough?" demanded the Westerner.
No answer came, except the heavy, irregular breathing of the man on the floor who was clawing for air in his lungs.
"I'll ask you once more where Kitty Mason is. And you'll tell me unless you want me to begin on you all over again."
The beaten pugilist sat up, leaning against the wall. He spoke with a kind of heavy despair, as though the words were forced out of him. He felt ashamed and disgraced by his defeat. Life for him had lost its savor, for he had met his master.
"She—got away."
"How?"