A rough hand seized his collar, and he was snatched violently back, dropping the whip and reaching for his gun as he fell.
It flashed forth as he struck the ground, and Moran’s boot struck square across his knuckles. The gun sailed twenty feet away, and Moran ground the hand into the gravel with his heel.
Brent wrapped his arms about the other’s knees, shifted one hand to the belt and literally climbed up Moran against the rain of solid blows which rocked his head. He lurched to his feet with his long arms locked around Moran. As they swayed, Moran drew up one knee and braced it against Brent’s chest in an effort to break the hold. The two fell together and rolled into a deadlock on the ground.
It was a silent, savage fight. Each man saved his breath and spoke no word. There was no sound but the shuffle of heaving bodies on the ground, the labored breathing of the two men and the repeated, heavy slam as the great wolf dog drove straight to the end of his chain.
Each man fought for a hold that would pin the other helpless to the ground. Moran writhed on top and freed one hand, driving it full into Brent’s upturned face.
