back again. The stump rocked forward in obedience to the maddened force, and rocked back, smashing the lever and Buck’s foot, and bringing the black colt over in the chains with the other two atop. Buck twisted free with a cry thin with pain, and mixed himself up in the tackle and the great heaving bodies and the flurry of beating hoofs.
“Come out of that,” shouted Art. “Come out, you———! I’ll get the brutes up.”
“I never,” yelled Buck in defiance. “You leave me ’lone. G-get out.”
His white desperate face showed an instant in the raw flame of a little fire near by. Then a straining head with wild eyes blocked it out. Mogger hesitated. He had all the courage of an ordinary man; but none could tell what might be in the half-seen hell of iron hoofs and chains if Art Scannell struck again. And Art Scannell did strike.
Mogger saw Randal’s long-armed swoop into the ruck. He saw him again in the fire-light with a face unknown, and Buck carried by the nape exactly as a man holds a rabbit. Then he saw Art Scannell go down before a straight cut between the eyebrows, and heard Randal’s voice, sharp-edged.
“Get round and uncouple the off-sider if you can. I’ll see to the others.”
Swiftly, cunningly, Randal cast off hooks, and gentled and raised the struggling bulks.
