ried to aim, pulled the trigger, tugging frantically. Only then she
remembered to draw the hammer back; it was Brodie's ancient rifle and
she struggled to get it cocked. She shuddered at the report. The bullet
sang in front of Benny, and he stopped dead in his tracks. He was near
the cave's mouth. Gloria pointed, forgot the hammer remembered, got the
gun cocked and fired again. Benny plunged wildly forward; she did not
know if she had hit him. He hurled himself headlong toward the narrow
exit and through.

She had forgotten Brodie and King! She turned toward them. She did not
dare shoot now; King was in the way. He moved aside as if he understood
her trouble; Brodie, grown unthinkably quick of foot, moved with him.
Brodie, too, understood. She saw him leap in and strike. The blow
landed, a glancing blow. King seemed to have grown tired; he moved so
slowly. But he did move and toward Brodie; he swung his clubbed
rifle-barrel and beat at Brodie's great face with it. Beat and missed
and almost fell forward. Again Brodie struck; again King beat at him.
They moved up and down, back and forth; Brodie was cursing under his
breath, and at last jeering. King was moving more and more slowly; his
left arm swung as if it were useless; Brodie swept up his club in both
hands, grunting audibly with every blow.... Oh, if she could only
shoot ... if she only dared shoot! But Brodie, nimble on his feet that
had been so patiently slow just now, kept King always in front of him,
between him and Gloria's rifle.

"I'll get you, King. I'll get you," shouted Brodie, his voice exulting.
"I always wanted to get you--right!"

There was a crash, the splintering of wood against steel. Both men had
struck together; Brodie's club had broken to splinters. And the
rifle-barrel in King's hands flew out of his grip and across the cave,
ringing out as it struck. The two men, their hands empty, stood a moment
staring at each other. Then Brodie shouted, a great shout of triumph,
and sprang forward. And Mark King, steadying himself, ignoring the hot
trickle of blood down his side where Benny's second bullet had torn his
flesh, met him with a cry that was like Brodie's own. In his hot brain
there was no thought of handicap, of odds, of Brodie's advantage. There
was only the mad rage which had hurled him here, one man against five in
a girl's defence, that and a raving, unleashed blood lust, the desire,
overshadowing all else, to have Brodie's brute throat i