It was not long before they broke away and rose from their first struggle on the ground, but Bonus finally got to his knees, then to his feet, and Will, as he did the same, knew by a sudden twinge in his leg that if the poacher made off it must now be beyond his power to follow.

“No odds,” he gasped, answering his thought aloud, while they wrestled.  “If you’ve brawk me somewheers ’t is no matter, for you ’m marked all right, an’ them squinting eyes of yourn’ll be blacker ’n sloes come marnin’.”

This obvious truth infuriated Bonus.  He did not attempt to depart, but, catching sight of his gun, made a tremendous effort to reach it.  The other saw this aim and exerted his strength in an opposite direction.  They fought in silence awhile—­growled and cursed, sweated and swayed, stamped and slipped and dripped blood under the dewy and hawthorn-scented night.  Bonus used all his strength to reach the gun; Will sacrificed everything to his hold.  He suffered the greater punishment for a while, because Sam fought with all his limbs, like a beast; but presently Blanchard threw the poacher heavily, and again they came down together, this time almost on the wretched beast that still struggled, held by the wire at hand.  It had dragged the fur off its leg, and white nerve fibres, torn bare, glimmered in the red flesh under the moon.

Both fighters were now growing weaker, and each knew that a few minutes more must decide the fortune of the battle.  Bonus still fought for the gun, and now his weight began to tell.  Then, as he got within reach, and stretched hand to grasp it, Blanchard, instead of dragging against him, threw all his force in the same direction, and Sam was shot clean over the gun.  This time they twisted and Will fell underneath.  Both simultaneously thrust a hand for the weapon; both gripped it, and then exerted their strength for possession.  Will meant using it as a club if fate was kind; the other man, rating his own life at nothing, and, believing that he bore Blanchard the grudge of his own ruin, intended, at that red-hot moment, to keep his word and blow the other’s brains out if he got a chance to do so.

Then, unheard by the combatants, a distant gate was thrown open, two brilliant yellow discs of fire shone along the avenue below, and John Grimbal returned to his home.  Suddenly, seeing figures fighting furiously on the edge of the hill not fifty yards away, he pulled up, and a din of conflict sounded in his ears as the rattle of hoof and wheel and harness ceased.  Leaping down he ran to the scene of the conflict as fast as possible, but it was ended before he arrived.  A gun suddenly exploded and flashed a red-hot tongue of flame across the night.  A hundred echoes caught the detonation and as the discharge reverberated along the stony hills to Fingle Gorge, Will Blanchard staggered backwards and fell in a heap, while the poacher reeled, then steadied himself, and vanished under the woods.