In the next breath Mackenzie was down, Carlson's hand at his throat.
Mackenzie could see Swan's face as he bent over him, the lantern light
on it fairly. There was no light of exultation in it as his great hand
closed slowly upon Mackenzie's throat, no change from its stony
harshness save for the dark gash and the flood of blood that ran down
his jaw and neck.

Mackenzie writhed and struggled, groping on the floor for something to
strike Carlson with and break his garroting grip. The blood was
singing in his ears, the breath was cut from his lungs; his eyes
flashed a thousand scintillating sparks and grew dark. His hand struck
something in the debris on the floor, the handle of a table knife it
seemed, and with the contact a desperate accession of life heaved in
him like a final wave. He struck, and struck at Swan Carlson's arm,
and struck again at his wrist as he felt the tightening band of his
fingers relax, heard him curse and growl. A quick turn and he was
free, with a glimpse as he rolled over at Swan Carlson pulling a table
fork out of his hairy wrist.

Mackenzie felt blood in his mouth; his ears were muffled as if he were
under water, but he came to his feet with a leg of the broken table in
his hand. Swan threw the fork at him as he rose from his knees; it
struck the lantern, breaking the globe, cutting off more than half the
dim light in which the undetermined battle had begun.

Over against the door Mrs. Carlson stood with the ax in her hands,
holding it uplifted, partly drawn back, as if she had checked it in an
intended blow. Swan tore a broad plank from the table top, split it
over his knee to make it better fit his hand, and came on to the
attack, bending in his slouching, bearish attitude of defiant
strength. Mackenzie gave way before him, watching his moment to strike
the decisive blow.

This maneuver brought Mackenzie near the door, where the wild-eyed
woman stood, an ally and a reserve, ready to help him in the moment of
his extremity. He believed she had been on the point of striking Swan
the moment his fingers closed in their convulsive pang of death over
the handle of the fork.

Swan followed, warily now, conscious of this man's unexpected strength
and agility, and of his resources in a moment of desperation, making
feints with his board as a batter does before the ball is thrown.
Mackenzie passed Mrs. Carlson, backing away from Swan, sparring for
time to recover his wind and faculties afte