It was hard for David to see what was
happening in that twisting contortion of huge bodies, but as they rolled
heavily to one side he saw a great red splash of blood where they had
lain. It looked as if some one had poured it there out of a pail.
Suddenly a hand fell on his shoulder. He looked round. Brokaw was
leering at him.
"Great scrap, eh?"
There was a look in his red face that revealed the pitiless savagery of
a cat. David's clenched hand was as hard as iron and his brain was
filled with a wild desire to strike. He fought to hold himself in.
"Where is--the Girl?" he demanded.
Brokaw's face revealed his hatred now, the taunting triumph of his power
over this man who was a spy. He bared his yellow teeth in an exultant
grin.
"Tricked her," he snarled. "Tricked her--like you tricked me! Got the
Indian woman to steal her clothes, an' she's up there in her
room--alone--_an' naked_! An' she won't have any clothes until I say so,
for she's mine--body and soul...."
David's clenched hand shot out, and in his blow was not alone the
cumulated force of all his years of training but also of the one great
impulse he had ever had to kill. In that instant he wanted to strike a
man dead--a red-visaged monster, a fiend; and his blow sent Brokaw's
huge body reeling backward, his head twisted as if his neck had been
broken.
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