CHAPTER III
THE FIGHT
Mackenzie got up, keeping the table between them. He looked at thedoor, calculating whether he could make a spring for the ax beforeCarlson could grapple him. Carlson read in the glance an intention toretreat, made a quick stride to the door, closed it sharply, lockedit, put the key in his pocket. He stood a moment looking Mackenzieover, as if surprised by the length he unfolded when on his feet, butwith no change of anger or resentment in his stony face.
"You didn't need to lock the door, Carlson; I wasn't going to runaway--I didn't wait here to see you for that."
Mackenzie stood in careless, lounging pose, hand on the back of hischair, pipe between his fingers, a rather humorous look in his eyes ashe measured Carlson up and down.
"Come out here in the middle and fight me if you ain't afraid!" Swanchallenged, derision in his voice.
"I'll fight you, all right, after I tell you what I waited here tosay. You're a coward, Swan Carlson, you're a sheepman with a sheep'sheart. I turned your woman loose, and you're going to let her stayloose. Let that sink into your head."
Carlson was standing a few feet in front of Mackenzie, leaningforward, his shoulders swelling and falling as if he flexed hismuscles for a spring. His arms he held swinging in front of him fulllength, like a runner waiting for the start, in a posture at onceunpromising and uncouth. Behind him his wife shuddered against thewall.
"Swan, Swan! O-o-oh, Swan, Swan!" she said, crying it softly as if shechided him for a great hurt.
Swan turned partly toward her, striking backward with his open hand.His great knuckles struck her across the eyes, a cruel, heavy blowthat would have felled a man. She staggered back a pace, then sanklimply forward on her knees, her hands outreaching on the floor, herhair falling wildly, her posture that of a suppliant at a barbarianconqueror's feet.
Mackenzie snatched the heavy platter from the table and broughtCarlson a smashing blow across the head. Carlson stood weaving on hislegs a moment as the fragments of the dish clattered around him,swaying like a tree that waits the last blow of the ax to determinewhich way it will fall. Mackenzie threw the fragment that remained inhis hand into Carlson's face, laying open a long gash in his cheek. Asthe hot blood gushed down over his jaw Carlson steadied himself on hisswaying legs and laughed.
Mrs. Carlson lifted her face out of the shadows of the floor at thesound. Mackenzie glanced at her, the red mark of Swan's harsh blowacross her brows, as he flew at Swan like a desert whirlwind, landingheavily on his great neck before he could lift a guard. The blowstaggered Carlson over upon his wife, and together they collapsedagainst the wall, where Carlson stood a breath, his hand thrown out tosave him from a fall. Then he shook his haughty, handsome, barbarianhead, and laughed again, a loud laugh, deep and strong.
There was no note of merriment in that sound, no inflection ofsatisfaction or joy. It came out of his wide-extended jaws with aroar, no facial softening with it, no blending of the features in thetransformation of a smile. Mrs. Carlson struggled to her knees at thesound of it, lifting her moaning cry again at the sight of his gushingblood. Swan charged his adversary with bent head, the floor tremblingunder his heavy feet, his great hands lifted to seize and crush.
Mackenzie backed away, upsetting the table between them, barring for amoment Swan's mad onrush. In the anger-blind movements of the man hecould read his intention, which was not to strike foot to foot, kneeto knee, but to grapple and smother, as he had smothered thesheepherders in the snow. Across the overturned table Mackenzie landedanother blow, sprang around the barrier out of the pocket of cornerinto which Carlson was bent on forcing him, hoping by nimble foot workto play on the flockmaster for a knockout.
Swan threw a chair as Mackenzie circled out of his reach with nimblefeet, knocking down the stovepipe, dislodging a shower of tinware fromthe shelves behind. Carlson had him by the shoulder now, but a deftturn, a sharp blow, and Mackenzie was free, racing over the clutteredfloor in wild uproar, bending, side-stepping, in a strained andterrific race. Carlson picked up the table, swung it overhead until itstruck the ceiling, threw it with all his mighty strength to crush theman who had evaded him with such clever speed. A leg caught Mackenziea glancing blow on the head, dazing him momentarily, giving Carlsonthe opening he desired.
In the next breath Mackenzie was down, Carlson's hand at his throat.Mackenzie could see Swan's face as he bent over him, the lantern lighton it fairly. There was no light of exultation in it as his great handclosed slowly upon Mackenzie's throat, no change from its stonyharshness save for the dark gash and the flood of blood that ran downhis jaw and neck.
Mackenzie writhed and struggled, groping on the floor for something tostrike Carlson with and break his garroting grip. The blood wassinging in his ears, the breath was cut from his lungs; his eyesflashed a thousand scintillating sparks and grew dark. His hand strucksomething in the debris on the floor, the handle of a table knife itseemed, and with the contact a desperate accession of life heaved inhim like a final wave. He struck, and struck at Swan Carlson's arm,and struck again at his wrist as he felt the tightening band of hisfingers relax, heard him curse and growl. A quick turn and he wasfree, with a glimpse as he rolled over at Swan Carlson pulling a tablefork out of his hairy wrist.
Mackenzie felt blood in his mouth; his ears were muffled as if he wereunder water, but he came to his feet with a leg of the broken table inhis hand. Swan threw the fork at him as he rose from his knees; itstruck the lantern, breaking the globe, cutting off more than half thedim light in which the undetermined battle had begun.
Over against the door Mrs. Carlson stood with the ax in her hands,holding it uplifted, partly drawn back, as if she had checked it in anintended blow. Swan tore a broad plank from the table top, split itover his knee to make it better fit his hand, and came on to theattack, bending in his slouching, bearish attitude of defiantstrength. Mackenzie gave way before him, watching his moment to strikethe decisive blow.
This maneuver brought Mackenzie near the door, where the wild-eyedwoman stood, an ally and a reserve, ready to help him in the moment ofhis extremity. He believed she had been on the point of striking Swanthe moment his fingers closed in their convulsive pang of death overthe handle of the fork.
Swan followed, warily now, conscious of this man's unexpected strengthand agility, and of his resources in a moment of desperation, makingfeints with his board as a batter does before the ball is thrown.Mackenzie passed Mrs. Carlson, backing away from Swan, sparring fortime to recover his wind and faculties after his swift excursion tothe borderland of death. He parried a swift blow, giving one in returnthat caught Swan on the elbow and knocked the plank out of his hand.Mackenzie sprang forward to follow up his advantage with a decisivestroke, when, to his amazement, Mrs. Carlson threw herself betweenthem, the ax uplifted in her husband's defense.
"No, no!" she screamed; "he is my man!"
Swan Carlson laughed again, and patted her shoulder, stooping torecover his board. But he flung it down again, taking the ax in itsplace, pushing his woman, not without some tenderness in his hand,back into the corner, throwing himself in front of her, his wildlaugh ringing in the murky room, stifling from the smoke of lanternand stove.
Mackenzie felt his hope break like a rope of straw at this unexpectedturn of the woman. With those two mad creatures--for mad he believedthe isolation and cruelty suffered by the one, the trouble and terrorof the law by the other, had driven them--leagued against him itseemed that he must put down all hope of ever looking again upon theday.
If there was any chance for him at all, it lay in darkness. With thisthought Mackenzie made a quick dash past Carlson, smashing the lanternwith a blow.
There was one window in the room, a small, single-sash opening nearthe stove. Even this was not apparent for a little while following theplunge into the dark; Mackenzie stood still, waiting for his eyes toadjust themselves to the gloom. No sound but Carlson's breathing camefrom the other side of the kitchen. The square of window appearedd
imly now, a little to Mackenzie's left. He moved cautiously away fromit, yet not without noise for all his care. Swan let drive with hisboard at the sound of movement. His aim was good; it struckMackenzie's shoulder, but fortunately with its flat surface, doing nohurt.
Mackenzie threw himself down heavily, getting cautiously to his feetagain instantly, hoping to draw Carlson over in the belief that he hadput him out of the fight. But Carlson was not so rash. He struck amatch, holding it up, peering under it, blinking in the sudden light.
Mackenzie was not more than eight feet away. He closed the distance ina bound, swung the heavy oak table leg, and stretched Carlson on thefloor. Mrs. Carlson began wailing and moaning, bending over her fallentyrant, as Mackenzie could gather from her voice.
"You've killed him," she said; "you've killed my man!"
"No, but I will kill him if you don't open the door!"
Mackenzie stood by Carlson as he spoke, feeling his body with hisfoot. He bent over Carlson, exploring for his heart, fearing that hehad killed him, indeed. His first efforts to locate a pulse were notassuring, but a feeble throbbing at last announced that the greatruffian's admirable machinery was stunned, not broken.
"Open the door; he'll be all right in a little while," Mackenziesaid.
Mrs. Carlson was moaning in a sorrow as genuine as if the fallen manhad been the kindest husband that fate could have sent her, and notthe heartless beast that he was. She found the key and threw the dooropen, letting in a cool, sweet breath of the night. Under it Carlsonwould soon revive, Mackenzie believed. He had no desire to linger andwitness the restoration.
Mackenzie had a bruised and heavy feeling about him as he shoulderedhis pack and hurried from that inhospitable door. He knew that SwanCarlson was not dead, and would not die from that blow. Why thefeeling persisted as he struck off up the creek through the dew-wetgrass he could not tell, but it was strong upon him that Swan Carlsonwould come into his way again, to make trouble for him on a futureday.
The Flockmaster of Poison Creek Page 3