A wild shout from the rocks above now startled him, and through the defile, with ceremonial lack of haste, a lone adversary was advancing, armed only with a tapering wooden club and wearing a garment made of skins that reminded O'Hara of Scottish Highland kilts, the feet and lower legs thickly encased in furs bound with spiraling rawhide thongs, a heavy parka covering the head and face--expert work, all of it. The intruder, although of lesser stature, moved forward with such confidence that O'Hara's automatic felt ridiculous to him. "Unsportsmanlike," he said. "You just don't shoot a man whose only weapon is a piece of carved wood, particularly not when you know that perhaps a hundred of his crowd are hiding in the rocks above you. I shoved the automatic inside my jacket. As you know, I used to wrestle, and while I measured him at possibly one hundred eighty pounds, I thought I could manage, if they'd keep those slabs off me." As they turned, facing each other in the dark, O'Hara was conscious that the number of flambeaux above him had increased and were inching forward, and very dimly now he could detect the outlines of their parka-covered heads. The game was approaching a climax. It came with a rush. His opponent leaped suddenly, swinging the carved club straight for O'Hara's head, a blow that would have crushed his skull had it struck home, but he ducked beneath its arc, coming up under the descending arm. He grabbed it, whirled and threw his heavy shoulder up, sending his opponent flying through the air. O'Hara picked up the club. His opponent, recovering quickly, now scrambled up and charged again, and O'Hara, his mind concerned most with the throng above, made his second decision--he dropped the club and stood there waiting. The next instant he was knocked from his feet by the ferocity of the charge, but in falling he locked his arms around his opponent's neck, attempting again a variation of the trick he'd used before, but momentum broke his hold and he fell backward. Instantly he saw the warclub rising. The blow crashed into the muscles of his shoulder. He rolled beneath it, got onto his knees just as a second blow splashed blood into his eyes, then plunged again. His groping fingers found the club and wrenched it loose and this time he forgot it was a game--in close, he struck. His opponent toppled backward and lay still. "I felt," said O'Hara, "rather like reciting a few lines from Horatio at the bridge. Or Spartacus. For my head was splitting. But the flambeaux were moving closer. I could see who carried them now--big fellows, perching up there in the box seats as if they might start throwing pennies to me. I waved the club to them. At the moment I think I would have fought the pack of them, for I was boiling--I'd been roughed up and I never had liked that. And then something touched my foot." His adversary had crawled across the snow and was reaching out, hand supplicant. The parka had fallen back. It was a woman.