“Say, the nerve!  He’ll break the life out o’ the skunk,” he exulted.  “The kid means crackin’ his neck, sure as God!”

“Ken he do it?” Tug had thrust forward.

“Laval ain’t the feller he was,” mused Abe.  “He shouldn’t a let the boy get that holt.  It’s goin’ back.  It certainly is.”

The men stood hushed before the terrible significance of what they beheld.  In the abstract, a life-and-death struggle meant little enough to them.  Witnessing it, however, violently stirred their deepest emotions.  They hated the camp boss, the libertine, drunkard, bully, Arden Laval, who only held his position by reason of his fighting powers.  They would be infinitely pleased to witness his end.  All the more sure was their delight that it should come at the hands of this pleasant-voiced young giant, who had come amongst them out of the very lap of civilisation.  Later on they would laugh at the thought of the redoubtable Laval in the hands of this “kid,” as they considered him.  But for the moment they were held enthralled by the excitement of it all.

The moments prolonged.  The thrusting hand, and the crushing arm were forcing, forcing slowly, in their terrible strangle hold.  The face of the camp boss was hidden from the spectators under the smothering hand.  But the perilous angle at which his dark head was thrust back was there for all to see.  His struggles, in that merciless hold, were becoming less violent.  There was despair in their impotence.

The man called Bull was fighting with no less desperation.  His youthful, resilient muscles were extended to the last ounce of their power, and an active, steely-tempered brain lay behind his every effort.  The memory of months of brutal injustice and bullying, the bitterness of which had galled beyond endurance, supported this last mighty effort.  Yes, for all he was bred in the gentle life of civilisation, for all ruthless cruelty had no place in his normal temper, his one desire now was to kill, to slay this brute-man who had made his life unendurable.

It was an awful moment.  It was terrible even to these hardy men of the forests.  The spectacle of a slow, deliberate killing was incomparable with the blood feuds to which they were used.  There were those whose nerves prompted them to shout for haste.  There were some even who welcomed the prolonged agony of the victim.  But none shouted, none spoke or stirred.  Furthermore, not one pair of shining eyes revealed the quality of mercy.  Bull’s right was his own.  If he demanded death it was his due.  Certainly it was the due of the bully, Laval.

On the far side of the circle a sudden commotion broke up the tense expectancy of the onlookers.  Every eye responded, and the unanimity of the change of interest suggested the desire for relief.  The commotion continued.  There was some sort of struggle going on.  Then, in a moment, it ceased.  A tall, lean, dark-clad figure leapt into the arena and flung itself upon the combatants.