With knife already open and in his hand the inhuman wretch slashed Roderick’s cheek, and the red blood spurted down his face and neck. Roderick loosed his hold and stepped back a pace—the next gash of this kind might easily be a fatal one. But not for one instant did he lose his presence of mind or nerve. As the cowardly miscreant advanced, cruel murder in his eyes, Roderick by a swift swing of his right parried the upraised hand that held the knife, and then, seizing the opening, he delivered with his left a smashing uppercut. Bledsoe reeled for a moment like a drunken man, then sank to the ground a huddled heap, and finally rolled over kicking convulsively and quite insensible.
The knockout had been effected quickly and well—like a butcher would fell a bullock.
Already the devastated city was under martial law, and three or four soldiers coming hurriedly up just then, and having seen from the opposite corner the hellish attempt of the two wretches to despoil the dead, shot them instantly, Bledsoe where he lay writhing, the other as he staggered dazed-like to his feet.
Roderick wiped the blood from his face, and thanked the soldiers. “Good for you, young fellow,” cried one of them as they continued on their way.
His wound forgotten, Roderick again looked round to see where he could render the most efficient service.
The night came on, and he was still at work, rescuing and helping. He had been recognized by the Citizens’ Committee of Safety and now wore a badge that gave him the freedom of the streets. In all his goings and comings he was ever looking for General Holden, and he also made numerous trips to Nob Hill, searching for the house where he had left Gail. But he could never find the place again, for the raging fire was fast obliterating all guiding landmarks.
Thus for two days—terrible days, pitiful days—for two nights—terrible nights, pitiful nights—Roderick drifted with the bands of rescuers, doing deeds of valor and of helpfulness for others less strong than himself. His face was black with soot and clotted with blood, his coat he had parted with at the beginning of the disaster, the rest of his clothing was tattered and torn, his sombrero had disappeared, when and how he had not the faintest notion.
The fire had now burned out its center circle and was eating away at the rim in every direction. Roderick suddenly remembered he had tasted no food since his early breakfast at Tate’s an hour before the earthquake crash. The pangs of hunger had begun to make themselves felt, and he concluded to turn his steps toward the outer fire line and endeavor to find something to eat.
As he walked along from house to house he found them all deserted. Some of the household goods were scattered about the lawns, while boxes, trunks, and bulky packages were piled on the sidewalks. Presently he found a basket which contained a single loaf of bread. This he ate ravenously, and counted it the greatest feast he had ever had in his life. He ate as he hurried along, thinking of Gail and General Holden—wishing he might divide the bread with them.
The roar of consuming, crackling flames, the deep intonations of intermittent dynamite explosions, and the occasional wail of human beings in distress, rose and fell like a funeral dirge.