The treacherous attempt upon his life filled him with rage.
He was, in very truth, the forest runner of the earlier century, and he
strove with all his great might to slay his enemy.
Skelly, six feet two inches tall and two hundred pounds of muscle and
sinew, struck the boy fiercely on the side of the head, but the terrible
grasp was still at his throat. He was the larger and the stronger,
but the sudden leap upon him gave his younger and smaller antagonist an
advantage. He had a pistol in his belt, but with that throttling grip
upon his throat he forgot it. The hunter had suddenly become the
hunted. Filled with rage and venom he had expected an easy triumph, and,
instead, he was now fighting for his life.
Skelly struck again and again at the boy, but Harry, with instinctive
wisdom, pressed his head close to the man's chin, and Skelly's blows
at such short range lacked force behind them. All the while Harry's
youthful but powerful arms were pouring strength into the hands that
grasped the man's throat. The mountaineer choked and gasped, and,
changing his aim from the head, struck Harry again and again in the
chest. Then he remembered to draw his pistol, but Harry, raising his
knee, struck him violently on the wrist.
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