A cry arose outside the cabin, then some heavy thing crashed in through the door, bringing light with it, for with his first leap Gale had carried the lamp and the table with him, and the two had clenched in the dark.
Burrell had waited an instant too long, for the men's voices had held so steady, their words had been so vital, that the finish found him unprepared, but, thrusting the lantern into Poleon's hand, he had backed off a pace and hurled himself at the door.

He had learned the knack of bunching his weight in football days, and the barrier burst and splintered before him.

He fell to his knees inside, and an instant later found himself wrestling for his life between two raging beasts.
The Lieutenant knew Doret must have entered too, though he could not see him, for the lantern shed a sickly gloom over the chaos.

He was locked desperately with John Gale, who flung him about and handled him like a child, fighting like an old gray wolf, hoary with years and terrible in his rage.

Burrell had never been so battered and harried and torn; only for the lantern's light Gale would doubtless have sheathed his weapon in his new assailant, but the more fiercely the trader struggled, the more tenaciously the soldier clung.