To his dismay, he saw no one.  He peered in bewilderment to the farther side of the room, where light struggled dimly in at the sides of a curtained window.  There was no sound, and yet he could acutely feel that presence; insistently his nerves tingled the warning of another’s nearness.  Leaning forward, still peering to sound the dim corners of the room, he called out again.

Then, from behind the door he had opened, a staggering blow was dealt him, and, before he could recover, or had done more than blindly crook one arm protectingly before his face, he was borne heavily to the floor, writhing in a grasp that centered all its crushing power about his throat.

CHAPTER II.

The Wild Ram of the Mountains

Slight though his figure was, it was lithe and active and well-muscled, and he knew as they struggled that his assailant was possessed of no greater advantage than had lain in his point of attack.  In strength, apparently, they were well-matched.  Twice they rolled over on the carpeted floor, and then, despite the big, bony hands pressing about his throat, he turned his burden under him, and all but loosened the killing clutch.  This brought them close to the window, but again he was swiftly drawn underneath.  Then, as he felt his head must burst and his senses were failing from the deadly grip at his throat, his feet caught in the folds of the heavy curtain, and brought it down upon them in a cloud of dust.

As the light flooded in, he saw the truth, even before his now panting and sneezing antagonist did.  Releasing the pressure from his throat with a sudden access of strength born of the new knowledge, he managed to gasp, though thickly and with pain, as they still strove: 

“Seth Wright—­wait—­let go—­wait, Seth—­I’m Joel—­Joel Rae!”

He managed it with difficulty.

“Joel Rae—­Rae—­Rae—­don’t you see?”

He felt the other’s tension relax.  With many a panting, puffing “Hey!” and “What’s that now?” he was loosed, and drew himself up into a chair by the saving window.  His assailant, a hale, genial-faced man of forty, sat on the floor where the revelation of his victim’s identity had overtaken him.  He was breathing hard and feeling tenderly of his neck.  This was ruffled ornamentally by a style of whisker much in vogue at the time.  It had proved, however, but an inferior defense against the onslaught of the younger man in his frantic efforts to save his own neck.

They looked at each other in panting amazement, until the older man recovered his breath, and spoke: 

“Gosh and all beeswax!  The Wild Ram of the Mountains a-settin’ on the Lute of the Holy Ghost’s stomach a-chokin’ him to death.  My sakes!  I’m a-pantin’ like a tuckered hound—­a-thinkin’ he was a cussed milishy mobocrat come to spoil his household!”

The younger man was now able to speak, albeit his breathing was still heavy and the marks of the struggle plain upon him.