e and sunk into the opposite wall, for, as Everett aimed at Lem,
Fledra twisted and struck his arm so heavily that his fingers loosened
and the weapon clattered across the room.

The impact of the scowman's body bore the lawyer down, while Fledra was
thrown away from the struggle by a sweep of Lem's left arm. Ann was
petrified with fear; but this did not keep her from picking up the girl
from the floor. In her terror she took in each motion of the fighters.
She saw Lem lift his left hand, and heard the sickening thud as his
great brown fist struck Everett full in the face. She saw the hook flash
in the candlelight, then bury its glittering prong in the other's neck.
Everett screamed once, then was silent; for with his unmaimed hand the
scowman had grasped his enemy's throat and was shaking the body as a dog
does a rat. In his frenzy, Lem threshed and tumbled Brimbecomb about on
the hut floor, the sight of his rival's blood sending him mad; and
always the sound of his gasps and chokes rose above the struggle. Of a
sudden the gurgles in the throat of the scowman ceased, his face became
purple black, and it seemed to Ann that his blood must burst through the
thick skin. With one last movement he again buried his hook in Everett,
then tried to throw the body from him; but, instead, he himself, fell in
a heap on the floor.

Suddenly the door opened, and Scraggy Peterson staggered into the hut.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

She sent no glance at Ann, nor did she see Fledra shrinking in the
corner. No thought came to her weak brain save of the two men at grips
with death. She staggered forward with a cry.

"Lemmy, Lemmy, ye wouldn't kill yer own brat?... He's our little 'un!...
Lemmy!... God!... Ye've killed him!"

Scraggy put her hands on Everett, and saw Lem struggle to sit up, the
lust of killing still blazing in his eyes. He had heard the woman's
words, and as he slowly grasped the import of them he turned over and
raised his head while pulling desperately at his throat.

"Oh, Lemmy, love," she murmured, "ye've killed him this time! He's
dead!" She leaned farther over, and kissed the white face of her son.
"Yer hook's killed our little 'un, Lemmy--my little 'un, my little 'un!"

"Oh, no, no, he isn't dead!" cried Ann. "He can't be dead!" She let go
her hold on Fledra, and, with Scraggy, bent over Everett. "Oh, he
breathes! But he isn't your son?"

"Yep; he be Lemmy's boy and mine," answered Scraggy, lifting her ey