Not until his arms met those of his fresh assailant did he
realize how much of himself he had expended upon the other. A sickening
horror filled his soul as he felt his weakness, and an involuntary moan
broke from his lips. Even then he would have cut out his tongue to have
silenced that sound, to have kept it from the girl. She was creeping on
her hands and knees, but he could not see. Her long hair trailed in the
trampled earth, and in the muddied water of the spring, and her hands
were groping--groping--until they found what they were seeking.
Then she rose to her feet, carrying the rock on which one of her hands
had rested when she knelt to drink. The bearded man, bringing himself to
his knees, reached out drunkenly, but she avoided him and poised herself
over Alan and his assailant. The rock descended. Alan saw her then; he
heard the one swift, terrible blow, and his enemy rolled away from him,
limply and without sound. He staggered to his feet and for a moment
caught the swaying girl in his arms.
The bearded man was rising. He was half on his feet when Alan was at his
throat again, and they went down together. The girl heard blows, then a
heavier one, and with an exclamation of triumph Alan stood up. By
chance his hand had come in contact with his fallen pistol. He clicked
the safety down; he was ready to shoot, ready to continue the fight
with a gun.
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