Shots were fired, but for the most part
it was a hand-to-hand struggle. The clearest picture that comes to me
out of the confused tangle is that of Wainwright handling his pistol
like a bowie knife, and trying to perform a surgical operation
extensive enough to let a joke into Darby Meeker's skull.
I doubt not that I was as crazy as the rest. The berserker rage was on
me, and I struck right and left. But in my madness there was one idea
strong in my mind. It was to reach the evil face and snake-eyes of Tom
Terrill, and stamp the life out of him. With desperate rage I
shouldered and fought till his white face with its venomous hatred was
next to mine, till the fingers of my left hand gripped his throat, and
my right hand tried to beat out his brains with a six-shooter.
"Damn you!" he gasped, striking fiercely at me. "I've been waiting for
you!"
I tightened my grip and spoke no word. He writhed and turned, striving
to free himself. I had knocked his revolver from his hand, and he tried
in vain to reach it. My grip was strong with the strength of madness,
and the white face before me grew whiter except where a smear of blood
closed the left eye and trickled down over the cheek beneath. A trace
of fear stole into the venomous anger of the one eye that was
unobscured, as he strove without success to guard himself from my
blows. But he gave a sudden thrust, and with a sinuous writhe he was
free, while I was carried back by the rush of men with the vague
impression that something was amiss with me.
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