pistol, emptied of its last cartridge, and then the high bounding figure of a Chinaman, a flashing knife in his hand, his face asnarl with hate and murderous resolve. Even in the speed of the tigerish spring, Sheridan sensed that it was Hsu Fu, intent upon the killing of Quong. The twisted features were of the same high-caste stamp as the mandarin's.
Quong had struck up the sheriff's ready hand, the shot echoing up to the roof.
"Leave him to me," he cried in a voice that held such command, such confidence, that they automatically obeyed and stood spellbound to watch the strange duel. From somewhere Quong, gunless, had produced a knife and, sidestepping the first rush of Hsu Fu, the two shuttled and circled over the gritty floor, in the light of the flare, their shadows distorted on the farther wall.
The long blades clashed and sparked in lightning thrust and parry. Gone was Quong's veneer of calm, his teeth showed plain between his drawn-back lips, deep lines angled from his nose towards the comers of his mouth, his nostrils flared. The sharp cut nose was now a beak and his eyes flamed with the lust of killing. His face flamed with incarnate ferocity; it was the face of a pirate, drunk, amok with the desire to carve the soul of his enemy from his body.
Twice they locked, hand about wrist, left arm to right, muscles swelling in leg and shoulder, glaring, tense with supreme effort. They sprang apart as if by mutual consent and leaped in again, crouching, lunging, emitting harsh grunts, beastlike, primitive.
