Instinctively he jammed the hand that held it down, rolled over on his antagonist, and then shook himself almost free again half-choked, as something that stung it sank into his shoulder.

Next moment he smote fiercely at a dim white face, knowing that a bone had turned the blade, but that the result would have been different had it entered a few inches lower.
His fist came down smashing, but the terrible fingers were clinging still, and the man's face was purple when they rolled together out of the briars and into the widening strip of radiance where the moon shone down.

Alton's hand was free now, and with arm bent between his enemy and the ground he thrust upwards with the last of his strength.

There was a crash, the man writhed backwards, the rancher's fingers slipped from their grasp, and a figure that rose partly upright reeled into the fern, while Alton felt the barrel of a rifle under him.

He rolled on his side, and clawed for it, almost sightless, with one hand, and laughed harshly as he raised himself a trifle.