crowned head to lay upon his shoulder, his lips to touch the pure, cold brow—he stopped suddenly, edged noiselessly a foot to one side—and waited.
An instant, barely that, and heaving, floundering, red-faced, carbine in hand, Kingman burst into sight not a yard away. There was a cry from Kingman, the carbine was half-lifted—and, in his prison clothes like some striped, hunted tiger at bay, Varge leaped. In a flash his hand had closed on the carbine and wrenched it from the other's grasp.
"Kingman," he said, in a low, deadly voice, "you know my strength. I have no wish to hurt you—but I am going to get away. Take your chance—go back."
A moment, Kingman's eyes met Varge's, faltered an eloquent appreciation of the desperate odds against him with his carbine gone, and the red ebbed from his face—then his jaw set hard.
"I can't go back," he said hoarsely. "You know that. I've got to get you—like this"—he hurled himself forward as he spoke.
It was a brave man's act, a brave man's words, fully sensed by Varge—but there was no choice—no choice. He sidestepped with a lightninglike movement, his left fist shot out and swung crashing upon the point of Kingman's jaw—and Kingman dropped like a felled ox. There had been no malice in the blow that had stunned the man and stopped the headlong rush—but it was a blow that had meant no other one should need to follow it—there was no time—no time.
The carbine was still clasped in Varge's right hand. He turned, and, resuming his doubled posture, ran on. It seemed like years since he had swerved into that little
