The Indian’s surprise and submission were gone in a flash, and the two clinched in combat.

On the one hand, jealousy, the inherited hatred of a mistreated race, the savage instinct, a gloating joy in brute strife, blood-lust, and a dogged will to trample in the dirt the man who made the sun shine black for the Apache.  On the other hand, a mad rage, a sense of insult, a righteous greed for vengeance for a cruel deed against an innocent woman, and all the superiority of a dominant people.  The one would conquer a powerful enemy, the other would exterminate a despicable and dangerous pest.

Back and forth across the narrow space hidden from the trail by fallen rock they threshed like beasts of prey.  The Apache had the swiftness of the snake, his muscles were like steel springs, and there was no rule of honorable warfare in his code.  He bit and clawed and pinched and scratched and choked and wrenched, with the grim face and burning eyes of a murderer.  But the Saxon youth, slower of motion, heavier of bone and muscle, with a grip like iron and a stony endurance, with pride in a conquest by sheer clean skill, and with a purpose, not to take life, but to humble and avenge, hammered back blow for blow; and there was nothing for many minutes to show which was offensive and which defensive.

As the struggle raged on, the one grew more furious and the other more self-confident.

“Oh, I’ll make you eat dust yet!” Beverly cried, as Santan in triumph flung him backward and sprang upon his prostrate form.

They clinched again, and with a mighty surge of strength my cousin lifted himself, and the Indian with him, and in the next fall Beverly had his antagonist gripped and helpless.

“I can choke you out now as easy as you shot that arrow.  Say your prayers.”  He fairly growled out the words.

“I didn’t aim at her,” the Apache half whined, half boasted.  “I wanted you.”

At that moment Beverly, spent, bruised, and bleeding with fighting and surcharged with the lust of combat, felt all the instinct of murder urging him on to utterly destroy a poison-fanged foe to humanity.  At Santan’s words he paused and, flinging back the hair from his forehead, he caught his breath and his better self in the same heart-beat.  And the instinct of the gentleman—­he was Esmond Clarenden’s brother’s son—­held the destroying hand.

“You aimed at me!  Well, learn your lesson on that right now.  Promise never to play the fool that way again.  Promise the everlasting God’s truth, or here you go.”

The boy’s clutch tightened on Santan’s throat.  “By all that’s holy, you’ll go to your happy hunting-ground right now, unless you do!” He growled out the words, and his blazing eyes glared threateningly at his fallen enemy.

“I promise!” Santan muttered, gasping for breath.

“You didn’t mean to kill the nun?  Then you’ll go with me and ask her to forgive you before she dies.  You will.  You needn’t try to get away from me.  I let you thrash your strength out before we came to this settlement.  Be still!” Beverly commanded, as Santan made a mad effort to release himself.