He knew what it must mean. The arm
which had drawn that arrow to its head was that of a slight, strong
creature who was not a man. Lightfoot, wild with love and anxiety, had
shot past Old Mok just as he laid down his bundle of arrows, and, when
she saw her husband's peril, had leaped forward with arrow upon string
and slain his latest assailant in the nick of time. Now, with arrow
notched again and a face ablaze with murderous helpfulness, she hovered
near, intent only upon sending a second shaft into the breast of
Boarface.
But there was no need. Unhampered now, Ab rushed in upon his enemy and
rained such blows as only a giant could have parried. Boarface fought
desperately, but it was only man to man, and he was not the equal of the
maddened one before him. His ax flew from his hand as his wrist was
broken by Ab's descending weapon, and the next moment he fell limply and
hardly moved, for a second blow had sunk the stone weapon so deeply in
his head that the haft was hidden in his long hair.
It was all over in a moment now. As Ab turned with a shout of triumph
there was a swift end to the little battle. There were brief encounters
here and there, but the Eastern men were leaderless and less
well-equipped than their foes, and though they fought as desperately as
cornered wolves, there was no hope for them.
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