“Then I, too, shall be unarmed,” replied Don Manuel, as he unbuckled his belt and tossed it lightly from him. “Come along, then—it is man to man with naked hands.” His tone now was one of concentrated passion and hate, and he advanced with arms extended for an enfolding embrace.
Now did Ben Thurston realize that his only chance for life lay in his superior weight, possibly his superior strength. At the thought, craven fear changed of a sudden to the courage of desperation, and like a wild cat he leaped at the throat of his adversary.
Then began a terrible struggle—two strong men writhing in each other’s grip like savage beasts. Soon their clothes were torn, their bodies begrimed with sweat and mud, their faces and naked arms bespattered with blood, for Ben Thurston’s nose had been broken in one of the first falls. Thurston, besides his extra pounds, had also the advantage of being younger by a few years. But Don Manuel was in better physical condition and his muscles were like bands of steel. So it was pretty much of a level match in this grim fight to the death.
As they tugged at each other, as each attempted to bear the other down or trip and throw him, as at times, each tried in their locked embrace to crush in his adversary’s ribs and squeeze the last breath out of his body, as they milled round and round, swayed and fell and rolled over and then for a moment regained a kneeling or an upright position—both men realized that it was the one who could last the longest with whom the mastery would rest.
Pierre Luzon, running up the trail, came to the edge of the open space where the desperate contest was in progress. But the onlooker did not attempt to interfere—he had had his orders; he just crouched and watched the swaying, writhing figures.
For an hour or more the fight proceeded, at times fast and furious, with breathing spells to follow, during which grips were tenaciously maintained. Points of advantage alternated now to the one side, now to the other, but after each succeeding tussle both combatants were exhausted without victory being pronounced for either. Every vestige of clothing above the belt line had long since been torn away, and they were sweating like lathered horses.
The milling and wrestling had gradually grown weaker, and it was clear now that the final test of endurance could not be much longer delayed. Yet again Don Manuel renewed the attack, and had forced Thurston to his knees, when the latter by a supreme effort raised himself again, and then by sheer weight pressed his opponent back a pace or two. But just at this moment Thurston’s strength seemed to give out, for he dropped down sideways, dragging his enemy after him.