His brain reeled when he saw her down—­down!—­with her little fists pummelling at a great, shaggy head; and in him there was the sickening weakness of a drunken man as he squeezed through that 18-inch aperture and almost fell at her side.  He did not know that he had drawn his automatic; he scarcely realized that as fast as his fingers could press the trigger he was firing shot after shot, with the muzzle of his pistol so close to the head of Tara’s enemy that the reports of the weapon were deadened as if muffled under a thick blanket.  It was a heavy weapon.  A stream of lead burned its way into the grizzly’s brain.  There were eleven shots and he fired them all in that wild, blood-red frenzy; and when he stood up he had the girl close in his arms, her naked breast throbbing pantingly against him.  The clasp of his hands against her warm flesh cleared his head, and while Tara was rending at the throat of his dying foe, David drew her swiftly out of the cage and flung about her the light jacket he had worn.

“Go to your room,” he said.  “Tara is safe.  I will see that no harm comes to him now.”

The cordon of men separated for them as he led her through.  The crowd was so silent that they could hear Tara’s low throat-growling.  And then, breaking that silence in a savage cry, came Brokaw’s voice.

“Stop!”

He faced them, huge, terrible, quivering with rage.  A step behind him was Hauck, and there was no longer in his face an effort to conceal his murderous intentions.  Close behind Hauck there gathered quickly his white-faced whisky-mongers like a pack of wolves waiting for a lead-cry.  David expected that cry to come from Brokaw.  The Girl expected it, and she clung to David’s shoulders, her bloodless face turned to the danger.

It was Brokaw who gave the signal to the men.

“Clear out the cage!” he bellowed.  “This damned spy has killed my bear and he’s got to fight me!  Do you understand?  Clear out the cage!”

He thrust his head and bull shoulders forward until his foul, hot breath touched their faces, and his red neck was swollen like the neck of a cobra with the passion of his jealousy and hatred.

“And in that fight—­I’m going to kill you!” he hissed.

It was Hauck who put his hands on the Girl.

“Go with him,” whispered David, as her arms tightened about his shoulders.  “You must go with him, Marge—­if I am to have a chance!”

Her face was against him.  She was talking, low, swiftly, for his ears alone—­with Hauck already beginning to pull her away.

“I will go to the house.  When you see me at that window, fall on your face.  I have a rifle—­I will shoot him dead—­from the window....”