Heavy-fisted miners with corded muscles landed
upon his face and head and neck. The strange excitement of the battle
lust surged through his veins. He did not care a straw for the odds.
The sudden attack of Elliot had opened the pack. The man battling
against a dozen was Colby Macdonald. The very number of his foes had
saved him so far from being rushed overboard or trampled down. In their
desire to get at him they hindered each other, struck blows that found
the wrong mark. His coat and shirt were in rags. He was bruised and
battered and bleeding from the chest up. But he was still slogging hard.
They had him pressed to the rail. A huge miner, head down, had his arms
around the waist of the Scotchman and was trying to throw him overboard.
Macdonald lashed out and landed flush upon the cheek of a man attempting
to brain him with a billet of wood. He hammered home a short-arm jolt
against the ear of the giant who was giving him the bear grip.
The big miner grunted, but hung on like a football tackler. With a jerk
he raised Macdonald from the floor just as three or four others rushed
him again. The rail gave way, splintered like kindling wood. The
Scotchman and the man at grips with him went over the side together.
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