As for the spectators, the Easterner's pent-up breath exploded
from him with a pop of relief, absolute relief from the tension of the
preliminaries. The cowboy bounded into the air with a yowl. Scully was
immovable as from supreme amazement and fear at the fury of the
fight which he himself had permitted and arranged.
For a time the encounter in the darkness was such a perplexity of
flying arms that it presented no more detail than would a
swiftly-revolving wheel. Occasionally a face, as if illumined by a
flash of light, would shine out, ghastly and marked with pink spots. A
moment later, the men might have been known as shadows, if it were not
for the involuntary utterance of oaths that came from them in
whispers.
Suddenly a holocaust of warlike desire caught the cowboy, and he
bolted forward with the speed of a broncho. "Go it, Johnnie; go it!
Kill him! Kill him!"
Scully confronted him. "Kape back," he said; and by his glance the
cowboy could tell that this man was Johnnie's father.
To the Easterner there was a monotony of unchangeable fighting
that was an abomination. This confused mingling was eternal to his
sense, which was concentrated in a longing for the end, the
priceless end. Once the fighters lurched near him, and as he scrambled
hastily backward, he heard them breathe like men on the rack.
"Kill him, Johnnie! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!" The cowboy's face
was contorted like one of those agony masks in museums.
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