“Here, damn you, let go!” panted Montgomery.

[Illustration:  “Here, let go!” panted Montgomery.]

He felt Langham’s hot breath on his cheek, he read murder by the wolfish light in his eyes.  He wrenched himself free of the other’s desperate clutch, but as he did so his foot caught against one of the rails and he slipped and fell to his knees.  In the intervals of his own labored breathing, he heard the flow of the river, a dull ceaseless roar, and saw the flashing silver of the moon’s rays as they touched the water’s turgid surface.  Langham no longer sought to force him from the bridge, but bent every effort to thrust him down between the ties to a swift and certain death.

“You want to kill me, too!” panted Montgomery, as by a mighty effort that brought the veins on neck and forehead to the point of bursting, he regained his footing on the ties.

But his antagonist was grimly silent, and Joe, roused to action by fear, and by a sullen rage at what he deemed the lawyer’s perfidy, turned and grappled with him.  Once he smashed his great fist full into Langham’s face, and though the blow sent the lawyer staggering across the bridge, he recovered himself quickly and rushed back to renew the fight.  Montgomery greeted him with an oath, and they grappled again.

Langham had known in his calmer moments when he planned Joe’s death, that his only hope of success lay in the suddenness of his attack.  Now as they swayed on the very edge of the bridge the handy-man put forth all his strength and lifted the lawyer clear of the ties, then with a mighty heave of his great shoulders he tossed him out into space.

There was a scarcely audible splash and Joe, looking fearfully down, saw the muddy drops turn limpid in the soft white light.  A moment later some dark object came to the surface and a white face seemed to look up into his, but only for a second, and then the restless flood bore it swiftly away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CUSTER’S IDOL FALLS

Early that same night Mr. Shrimplin, taking Custer with him, had driven out into the country.  Their destination was a spot far down the river where catfish were supposed to abound, for Izaak Walton’s gentle art was the little lamplighter’s favorite recreation.  After leaving Mount Hope they jogged along the dusty country road for some two miles, then turning from it into a little-traveled lane they soon came out upon a great sweeping bend of the stream.

“I don’t know about this, Custer,” said Mr. Shrimplin, with a doubtful shake of the head, as he drew rein.  “She’s way up.  I had no idea she was way up like this; I guess though we can’t do no better than to chance it, catfish is a muddy-water fish, anyhow.”

He tied wild Bill to a blasted sycamore, and then, while he cut poles from the willow bushes that grew along the bank, Custer built a huge bonfire, by the light of which they presently angled with varying fortunes.