McClintock plunged, head down and arms wide. His full weight back of the drive, he crashed into the retreating enemy and flung him backward. The marching years had developed Hugh. His stringiness was gone. He was a large man, tall and straight, with hard-packed muscles. No wildcat of the Sierras was more lithe and supple than he. But as he struggled with this ruffian, now on top, now underneath, their legs thrashing wildly as each tried to pin the other down, McClintock knew that the fellow with whom he grappled was bigger than he, thicker through the body, broader across the shoulders. They whirled over and over. Thick thighs clamped themselves to Hugh’s waist. Huge fingers closed on his throat. He threw up an arm, and at the same time a jagged bolt of pain shot through it. In the flesh of the biceps the blade of a bowie sheathed itself. His breath shut off, the warm blood welling from his arm, Hugh gave a desperate heave of his body and flung the man astride of him forward and to the left. He spun round with pantherish swiftness and launched himself at the bulk of energy gathering itself for another attack. They went down together, Hugh on top. His wounded arm pinned down the wrist with the knife. The assassin felt for McClintock’s eye socket with his thumb and gouged at it. The niceties of civilized warfare had no place in this conflict with a primordial brute. Dodging the thumb, Hugh found his mouth pressed against the forearm he held captive. The strong teeth that had been carrying the revolver until the two had come to grips closed on the tendons of the hairy arm. The man underneath gave a yell of pain. His fingers relaxed and opened. The handle of the bowie slipped away from them. With his free arm the gunman tried to drag out a revolver. Hugh’s fist, hard as knotted pine, drove savagely into the bearded face. It struck again and again, with the crushing force of a pile driver. Grunting with pain, the murderer covered up to escape punishment. He was lying cramped against the wall in such a way that he could not get at his six-shooter. The man bellowed with rage and thrashed about to avoid that flailing fist. His boot heel found a purchase against the wall and he used it to pry himself out of the corner into which he had been flung. The fighters rolled out from the building, for the moment free of each other. A flying boot struck Hugh in the forehead and dazed him. He scrambled to his feet. His foe was legging it down the alley with all the grace of a bear in a hurry to get away. McClintock started to pursue, then changed his mind abruptly. The man was armed and he was not. If he should run him down the ruffian would turn and murder him. At least he had written his John Hancock on the fellow’s face and would know him again if he saw him soon.