uld manage him.

His mind was full of the problem that had come into his life. He rode
abstractedly, so that he was at the lower ford of the creek almost
before he knew it. A bilberry thicket straggled down to the opposite
bank of the stream on both sides of the road.

The horse splashed through the ford and took the little rise beyond with
a rush. Just before reaching the brow of the hill, the animal stumbled
and fell. As its rider went headlong, he caught a glimpse of a cord
drawn taut across the path.

Macdonald, shaken by the fall, began slowly to rise. From the shadows
of the bilberry bushes two stooping figures rushed at him. He threw up
an arm to ward off the club aimed at his head, but succeeded only in
breaking the force of the blow. As he staggered back, stunned, a bullet
glanced along his forehead and ridged a furrow through the thick hair.
A second stroke of the club jarred him to the heels.

Though his mind was not clear, his body answered automatically the
instinct that told him to close with his assailants. He lurched forward
and gripped one, wrestling with him for the revolver. Vaguely he knew
by the sharp, jagged shoots of pain that the second man was beating his
head with a club. The warm blood dripped through his hair and blinded
his eyes. Dazed and shaken, he yet managed to get the revolver from the
man who had it. But it was his last effort. He was too far gone to use
it. A blow on the forehead brought him unconscious to the ground
bleeding from a dozen wounds.

On his way back from Seven-Mile Creek Camp Gordon Elliot rode down to
the ford. In the dusk he was almost upon them before the robbers heard
him. For a moment the two men stood gazing at him and he at the tragedy
before him. One of the men moved toward his horse.

"Stop there!" ordered Gordon sharply, and he reached for his revolver.

The man--it was the miner Northrup--jumped for Elliot and the field
agent fired. Another moment, and he was being dragged from the saddle.
What happened next was never clear to him. He knew that both of the
bandits closed in on him and that he was fighting desperately against
odds. The revolver had been knocked from his hand and he fought with
bare fists just as they did. Twice he emptied his lungs in a cry for
help.

They quartered over the ground, for Gordon would not let either of them
get behind him. They were larger than he, heavy, muscle-bound giants of
great strength, but he was far more active