battle cry, and with it he rushed Harrigan. They raged back and forth
across the deck, and the wolf pack drew close, cursing beneath their
breath. They had looked for a quick end to the struggle, but now they
saw that the fighters were mated. The greater strength was McTee's; the
greater purpose was Harrigan's. McTee fought to crush and conquer;
Harrigan fought to kill.

The blows of the captain flung Harrigan here and there, yet he came
back to meet the attack, slinking with sure, catlike steps. The heel
and pitch of the deck sometimes staggered the captain, but Harrigan
seemed to know beforehand what would happen, and he leaped in at every
opening with blows that cut the skin.

His own flesh was bruised. He bled from mouth and nose, but what was
any other pain compared with the torture of his clenched fists? It made
his arms numb to the elbow and sent currents of fire through his veins.
His eyes kept on the thick throat of McTee. Though he was knocked
reeling and half senseless, his stare never changed, and the wolf pack,
with their heads jutting forward with eagerness watched, waited. The
"Ha!" of McTee rang with the strength of five throats. The "Wah-h!" of
Harrigan purred like a furious panther's snarl.

Then as the frenzy left Harrigan and the numbness departed from his
arms, he knew that he was growing weaker and weaker. In McTee's eyes he
saw the growing light of victory, the confidence. His own wild hunger
for blood grew apace with his desperation. He flung himself forward in
a last effort.

A ponderous fist cracked home between his eyes, fairly lifting him from
his feet and hurling him against the base of the wheelhouse. Then a