Where there
had been laughter, there came a sudden shutting off of sound, a
great gasp, as if made by choking men. Swifter than anything they
had ever seen in human action Carrigan had leaped in. They saw him
strike. They heard the blow. They saw St. Pierre's great head rock
back, as if struck from his shoulders by a club, and they saw and
heard another blow, and a third--like so many flashes of
lightning--and St. Pierre went down as if shot. The man they had
laughed at was no longer like a hopping sparrow. He was waiting,
bent a little forward, every muscle in his body ready for action.
They watched for him to leap upon his fallen enemy, kicking and
gouging and choking in the riverman way. But David waited, and St.
Pierre staggered to his feet. His mouth was bleeding and choked
with sand, and a great lump was beginning to swell over his eye. A
deadly fire blazed in his face, as he rushed like a mad bull at
the insignificant opponent who had tricked and humiliated him.
This time Carrigan did not retreat, but held his ground, and a
yell of joy went up from Bateese as the mighty bulk of the giant
descended upon his victim. It was an avalanche of brute-force,
crushing in its destructiveness, and Carrigan seemed to reach for
it as it came upon him.
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