and forth. Hollister grunted as Sheridan smashed him over the heart with a short-armed jolt, clinging, striking up with his knee to foul. With one hand, his strength desperate in the extremity, Hollister clawed at Sheridan's face, his nails fetching blood, thumb and finger hooked into his opponent's eye, striving to force the ball from the socket while the other hand clutched at Sheridan's right arm.
The pain was maddening, paralyzing. Sheridan hammered at him with his free left, tore loose and, half-blinded, closed in again with smashing blows that broke down Hollister's guard. He clutched him by the throat and shook him, forcing him to his knees until his tongue lolled out and his bloated face turned purple.
"No sense in swingin' for him, Pete," said Jackson, his voice crisp.
"I'll not—kill—him," panted Sheridan, "but I'll mark him."
He twisted Hollister to hands and knees and dragged him, one hand in the slack of his overalls, the other twined in his collar, over the sand to where the tar pot stood slightly tilted. Into it he thrust Hollister's head, deep into the clinging muck, dipping it deep, then jerked it out and flung him to the sand. Hollister got up slowly, striving to wipe the stuff from his eyes, his mouth. His mustache was clogged with it, his face was hideous as he stood there, horrible, inarticulate, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.
"Better git that off, 'fore yore whiskers start to sprout," advised Jackson.
