The spot moved as Awi Agwa gave backward. Almayne no longer had a stationary target. Awi Agwa, head to head with his foe, was retreating more rapidly, moving steadily backward, keeping his opponent's antlers within the guard of his own, but no longer trying to hold his ground. The hunter shifted the rifle to readjust his aim, but now the giant elk had swung a little to the right and no vital spot was exposed.
Almayne, still holding the rifle at his shoulder, awaited his opportunity; and suddenly, as he waited, he understood.
Awi Agwa was beaten—beaten for the first time in his life—beaten because he had entered this battle crippled and weary, a mere shadow of himself. But his was not to be the ignominious fate of the defeated monarch. He would not die under the horns and hoofs of his conqueror, trampled to nothingness in the dust.
Perhaps, as Almayne believed, he made his choice deliberately. Perhaps he was too dazed and spent to know what he was doing. At any rate, he no longer circled the meadow as he gave ground before his enemy. Instead, he backed straight towards the precipice's rim.
Almayne leaped to his feet, flung the rifle again to his shoulder. There was no time now for a deliberate aim. Head to head, the two battling
