When he struck the ground he felt for his pocket, but Drummond fell upon him with a cry that was like a wild beast's howl.
Thirlwell saw it was time to interfere.

An Indian never forgets an injury, and Drummond had inherited his father's grim Scottish stubbornness.

He rolled over with Stormont, and then getting uppermost, savagely bumped his head against the rock.

This gave Thirlwell his opportunity, and seizing the lad's shoulders, he pressed his knee against the small of his back.
"Stop!" he shouted.

"Do you mean to kill the man ?" "Sure!" gasped Drummond.