reckless of method, caring for nothing except to get his man.  His grip was at my throat, and, even as his fingers closed savagely, he struck me with one knee in the stomach, and drove an elbow straight into my face.  The next instant we were locked together so closely any blow became impossible, youth and agility waging fierce battle against brutal strength.  I think I was his match, yet this I never knew—­for all my thought centered in an effort to keep his hands from reaching any weapon.  Whatever happened to me, there must be no alarm, no noise sufficiently loud so as to attract the attention of sentries on guard.  This affair must be fought out with bare knuckles and straining sinews—­fought in silence to the end.  I held him to me in a bear grip, but his overmastering strength bore me backward, my body bending beneath the strain until every muscle ached.

“Damn you—­you sneakin’ spy!” he hissed savagely, and his jaws snapped at me like a mad beast.  “Let go! damn you—­let go!”

Crazed by the pain, I swerved to one side, and half fell, my grip torn loose from about his arms, but as instantly closing again around his lower body.  He strained, but failed to break my grasp, and I should have hurled him over the hip, but at that second Gaskins struck me, and I went tumbling down, with the saloon keeper falling flat on top of me, his pudgy fingers still clawing fiercely at my throat.  It seemed as though consciousness left my brain, crushed into death by those gripping hands, and yet the spark of life remained, for I heard the ex-preacher utter a yelp, which ended in a moan, as a blow struck him; then Rale was jerked off me, and I sobbingly caught my breath, my throat free.  Into my dazed mind there echoed the sound of a voice.

“Is thet ‘nough, Jack?—­then holler.  Damn yer, yer try thet agin, an’ I’ll spill whut brains ye got all over this kintry.  Yes, it’s Tim Kennedy talkin’, an’ he’s talkin’ ter ye.  Now yer lie whar yer are.  Yer ain’t killed, be ye, Knox?”

I managed to lift myself out of the dirt, still clutching for breath but with my mind clearing.

“No; I guess I’m all right, Tim,” I said, panting out the words with an effort.  “What’s become of Kirby?  Don’t let him get away.”

“I ain’t likely to.  He’s a lyin’ right whar yer dropped him.  Holy Smoke! it sounded ter me like ye hit him with a pole-axe.  I got his gun, an’ thet’s whut’s makin’ this skunk hold so blame still—­oh, yes, I will, Jack Rale; I’m just a achin’ fer ter let ye hav’ it.”

“And the other fellow?  He hit me.”

“My ol’ frien’, Gaskins; thet’s him, all right.”  The deputy gave vent to a short, mirthless laugh.  “Oh, I rapped him with the butt; had ter do it.  He’d got hold ov a club somwhar, an’ wus goin’ ter give yer another.  It will be a while, I reckon, ’fore he takes much interest.  What’ll I do with this red-headed gink?”