The leaders took a corner too fine. The log grunted, swung, and grounded across the track, jamming between stiff tuke-tuke saplings. Steve’s heart leapt in his throat as he sent a glance up the track. For down the greasy sidling Lou’s team was coming at a swinging gallop, and the grip bounded in the air, unsteadied by any weight whatever.
“Lost ’is log, has he? Grip slipped—my soul! he’ll pay for’t in a minute.”
Then Steve stood aside, helpless, while the other man gave payment.
Lou’s right hand was as a twitch on the foremost red nostril, and the brute had its head up, bellowing with pain. Two chains; one; then the charge hit the four-foot totara fair, and crumbled.
Lou found foothold, cat-like, diving in where the fallen leaders writhed, and the eight behind bunched upon them. The flurry of sweat-caked bodies and tossing horns and reddened strained eyes made the very gateway of the Pit, and that gate fell half-open for Lou as he struggled, cursing, with the chains. Quite clearly Steve saw him go down where the hoofs beat. Quite clearly he remembered Lou’s face as he kissed Maiden’s hand in the crush.
“Curse him,” he said, “now an’ always!” Then he went in and brought the man out.
Lou’s left sleeve was ripped to the shoulder,
