"Close in on him, men--surround him!" snarled Millard. "You've got to
get him! We haven't many minutes left. We don't know at what instant
to look for interference."
Jack landed effectively on another of the rascals. Just as he was
wheeling, however, to ward off the attack of another, a stick landed
against his left knee, partly crippling him.
In moving backward Benson almost stumbled over a stone half the size of
his head.
Right there, in the same movement with which he thrust the revolver into
one of his pockets, he bent down, snatched up the heavy stone, and held
it poised over his head.
"Now, come on! Now, close in!" cried Jack Benson, exulting. "The first
man who gets too close has his head split open! Who wants it?"
His usually, good-humored face was transformed by the fiery rage of
battle.
Surely there was some of the old Norseman streak left in Jack Benson's
make-up.
As he stood there, keenly alert, ready to heave the rock, he looked like
a young Thor armed with massive stone hammer.
"Spread! Get in back of him!" yelled Millard, hoarsely. "I'll take
the position of attack in front.
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