Again and again West
struck him, driving him prone to the floor before the other two dragged
him away, wrestled the weapon from his hand, and closed with him in a
desperate death grapple.
What followed he never could relate. He was mad with fury of the fight.
A mere animal defending life with every means at hand, caring nothing for
either wound or hurt so that he won out in the end. Mike was out of it,
but the two grappling him fought like wild cats, rough barroom fighters,
resorting to any tactics to disable their opponent. Yet it was this that
saved him. Crazed as he was, madly as his brain whirled in the fierce
struggle, his long training held supreme--he knew how to fight,
remembered instinctively every trick and guard. Again and again his
clinched fist reached its mark, and slowly he broke away from clutching
hands, and regained his feet. It was a terrific struggle, but luck, as
well as skill, was with him. The next he knew, out of the red ruck, was
that he had Hobart by the throat, jammed against the wall, with fingers
clinched in the throat. Then he saw the other coming, a dim, shapeless
thing, that he kicked at viciously. The boot must have landed, for he was
suddenly free to strike the purple face fronting him, and fling the
helpless rocking body in a huddled mass on the floor.
By God, it was over with; he had won breathing space, a chance to see
what was about him. Yet that was all.
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