The brief
siege, if siege it could be called, was over.
In the early light Derrick found himself fighting, fighting furiously,
sword to sword. And the terrible joy of the conflict ran in his blood
like fire.
"Ah!" he gasped. "It's good! It's good!"
And then he found another fighting beside him--a mighty fighting man,
grim, terrible, silent. They thrust together; they withdrew together;
they charged together.
Once an enemy seized Derrick's sword and he found himself vainly
struggling against the awful, wild-faced fanatic's sinewy grasp. He saw
the man's upraised arm, and knew with horrible certainty that he was
helpless, helpless.
Then there shot out a swift, rescuing hand. A straight and deadly blow
was struck. And Derrick, flinging a laugh over his shoulder, beheld a
man dressed as a tribesman fall headlong over his enemy's body, struck
to the earth by another swordsman.
Like lightning there flashed through his brain the memory of a man who
had saved his life more than a year before on this same tumultuous
Frontier--a man in tribesman's dress, with blue eyes of a strange, keen
friendliness. He had it now. This was the Secret Service man.
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