In another instant he had
fired and the huge form of Arbor Croche toppled headlong into the room.
A roar like that of a beast came from behind him and before he could
turn again Strang was upon him. In that moment he felt that all was
lost. Under the weight of the Mormon king he was crushed to the floor;
his pistol slipped from his grasp; two great hands choked a despairing
cry from his throat. He saw the prophet's face over him, distorted with
passion, his huge neck bulging, his eyes flaming like angry garnets. He
struggled to free his pinioned arms, to wrench off the death grip at his
throat, but his efforts were like those of a child against a giant. In a
last terrible attempt he drew up his knees inch by inch under the
weight of his enemy; it was his only chance--his only hope. Even as he
felt the fingers about his throat sinking like hot iron into his flesh
and the breath slipping from his body he remembered this murderous
knee-punch of the rough fighters of the inland seas and with all the
life that remained in him he sent it crushing into the abdomen of the
Mormon king. It was a moment before he knew that it had been successful,
before the film cleared from his eyes and he saw Strang groveling at his
feet; another moment and he had hurled himself on the prophet. His fist
shot out like a hammer against Strang's jaw. Again and again he struck
until the great shaggy head fell back limp. Then his fingers twined
themselves like the links of a chain about the purplish throat and he
choked until Strang's eyes opened wide and lifeless and his convulsions
ceased.
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