ess, the vertebrae seemed about to crack.
Strength and will were shut off, and the world went black. And then one
of the hunters catapulted into the struggle, and the four of them went
down in a maddened frenzy of blows and stifled shouts.

The sailors fought like beasts, striving for blows barred by all codes
of decency and fair play, intent to maim. Lund had got his shoulders
against the rocks and stood with open hands, watching the two with their
knives, who crept in, foot by foot, to make a finish.

Peggy Simms, a strand of her pale yellow hair whipped loose, flung it
out of her eyes as she stood on the edge of the cliff, her lips apart,
her breasts rising stormily, watching; her features changing with the
tide of battle as it surged beneath her, punctuated with muffled shouts
and wind-clipped oaths. She saw Lund at bay, and snatched out her
pistol. But the distance was too great. She dared not trust her aim.

Sandy, dancing in and out, willing but helpless, bound by fear and lack
of muscle, saw Deming, followed by Beale, stealing up the trail,
unnoticed by the girl, who leaned far forward, watching the fight, her
eyes on Lund and the two creeping closer with their knives, cautious but
determined. Tamada stood farther back and could not see them.

The lad's wits, sharpened by his forecastle experience, surmised what
Deming and Beale were after as they gained the promontory flat and ran
toward the fires.

"Hey!" he shrilled. "Look out; they're after the tools!"

Deming's hand was stretched toward a shovel, its worn steel scoop sharp
as a chisel. Beale was a few feet behind him. They were going to toss
the shovels and drills down to the seamen.

Tamada turned. His face did not change, but his eyes gleamed as he
thrust a dipper in the steaming remnants of the pea-soup and flung the
thick blistering mass fair in Deming's face. At the same moment the
girl's pistol cracked with a stab of red flame. Beale dropped, shot in
the neck, close to the collarbone, twisting like a scotched snake,
rolling down the trail to the beach again.

Deming, howling like a scorched devil, clawed with one hand at the
sticky mass that masked him as he ran blind, wild with pain. He tripped,
clutched, and lost his hold, slid on a plane of icy lava, smooth as
glass, struck a buttress that sent him off at a tangent down the face of
the cliff, bounding from impact with an outthrust elbow of the rock,
whirling into space, into the icy turmoil