The fight for the nonce became a scuffle. The stranger fought as Roger
had never seen a white man fight before; his hard brown fingers were
fixed rigidly like iron claws with which he struck and clutched
spasmodically for a grip on the flesh of face or neck.
"I'll claw the face off you, you sucker! I'll leave you blind for the
vultures to pick."
"Fight like a white man!" cried Roger, throwing him off. "Close your
fists and hit, or, by the eternal, I'll beat you to a pulp."
He caught the wrists of the frenziedly clawing hands as they chopped at
him again and in an instant was forced to let go, as his assailant
kicked with vicious cunning at his groin. Roger drew a great breath,
filling his lungs to their utmost capacity, then, venting his loathing
rage in a rumbling bellow, he dove in regardless. Straight against the
ironlike claws he drove, reckless in the grasp of the anger that had
exploded within him at the unfair trick. Up and back he beat the
clutching hands, and drove his right fist to the lower ribs with a
force that made the victim gasp. Again he struck, bringing his fist
from behind him in an irresistible arc to its mark. Again and again he
struck the cattleman's hardened body and then, sensing his opponent's
wilting, he drove in, both arms working like pistons, literally beating
his man flat to the ground.
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