the barrel the instant death jetted from it; a bullet flattened against the stones of the fireplace and dropped within two inches of Zang Whistler's head.
Original was on his feet like a cat. As Hilma's right hand swung the ejector he closed with her. His grip was upon the rifle, one hand below hers on the barrel, the other tightened like a steel clamp across her hand at the breech.
They battled. It was crude, primitive combat. Gone were restricting conventions laid by the ages against man who fights with woman. Sped were all the subtleties of sex and the niceties of chivalry. The man, with enemies outside the door and an enemy within, was moved by the single impulse of self-preservation. He fought to live. The woman was driven by hate,—by a consuming passion to wipe out the wound to her pride this man had given with his kiss in the wilderness. No thought of loyalty for Whistler, her lover, prompted Hilma; she had no idea of securing his freedom by attacking his enemies.
Hand grip to hand grip, this was an issue between Original Bill and Hilma Ring,—alone.
