"You scab! Where'll I hit you first?" jeered Caldert, making a vicious swing at the head of Segunder Olsen.

That was the last conscious moment of Mike for a full half hour. Olsen took a step forward, his long arm shot out and Caldert went to the floor in a heap.

Olsen faced the crowd, his eyes flashing as they had not done in a long time before. With distended nostrils he quietly awaited the rush of the crowd of miners.

"Come on, I vait for you!" growled Olsen.

"Sail in, fellows; we'll down the seal-eater. It was a chance blow that laid Mike out. Go for him!"

The speaker made a leap for Olsen, then went tottering backward with a sledge-hammer blow over his heart.

Still another miner closed in and clinched. Segunder's fists played a terrible tattoo on the man's body, causing the a.s.sailant to totter away groaning.

"Come on, you dogs!" bellowed the Icelander, the spirit of battle having by this time taken full possession of him. "I lig you all!"

"Slug him! Slug him all at once!" shouted a voice.

"We can't get near enough. His arms are too long."

Bang!

Segunder received a blow in the side that caused him to writhe with pain. He whirled on his a.s.sailant with surprising quickness considering the Icelander's bulk. His ponderous fist smote the other man between the eyes, sending the fellow hurtling clear across the room.

Attracted by the uproar, Bob Jarvis, who had come in search of Olsen, had run up the stairs. His eyes quickly took in the situation. Bob could scarce restrain himself from rushing into the fray. But as yet there appeared no need for him to do so. Segunder was holding his own; in fact, thus far he had the better of the argument.

The enemy backed away and consulted for a few brief seconds, then with one movement they charged the big man. Men went down like nine-pins. The long arms of the Icelander swung wildly but with telling effect. The sound of the blows was heard out in the street. It seldom required more than one blow from those ponderous fists to unfit the man on whom they had landed for further partic.i.p.ation in the fight.

"Get into him! Use a club or a knife!" howled a man.

At this juncture Cavard, who had been watching the progress of the fight with pale face and blazing eyes, leaped from the platform and began forcing his way through the crowd.

Cavard was a big and powerful man. He could hit hard and sure, as some of the men there were well aware from personal experience. Segunder saw him coming, and a gleam of savage joy lighted up the eyes of the Icelander.

The Russian walked more slowly as he neared his adversary. The two men eyed each other steadily. All at once the labor leader's right fist shot out with lightning-like speed. It caught Segunder on the side of the head, spinning him about. Before he could catch his balance Cavard was upon him.

Instantly the two men became a whirling, tumbling tangle, arms striking, feet kicking, breath coming in quick, short gasps. First Olsen would be under; then it would be Cavard's turn.

The others in the room had instinctively drawn back when the battle between the two giants commenced.

Cavard loosed his grip on Olsen, endeavoring to get in a telling blow, with which he hoped to put his adversary out. But before he could strike, Segunder's fist was jammed into his face with awful force. The labor leader staggered back with the blood flowing freely.

With a growl of rage Olsen was upon him.

The men clinched and both went to the floor. But, as they fell, Cavard had managed to slip a revolver from his pocket. It was now his one purpose to bring the weapon into position where he could use it.

"Look out, Segunder--he's got a gun!" shouted Bob Jarvis.

But the Icelander did not need the warning. He had seen the movement and he was now struggling to get possession of the weapon before it could be turned against him. Cavard was on his back, with his cheek pressed tightly against the cheek of his opponent, the Icelander's left hand pinioning Cavard's right hand and the weapon to the floor.

With a sudden powerful upward movement of his body Cavard threw his adversary off and leaped to his feet. In getting up, however, the Russian's weapon was knocked from his hand.

A lithe young figure sprang through the crowd at the instant when the miners, believing their leader was seriously hurt, were making a rush for Olsen.

The figure was Bob Jarvis. Quick as a flash he s.n.a.t.c.hed the revolver from the floor and sprang back again the wall.

"Jarvis! Jarvis! Throw him out of the window. _Kill_ the scab!"

Slowly the weapon in the hand of the Iron Boy was raised to a level with the men's heads.

"Stand back, every mother's son of you, or I'll make you look like nutmeg graters!" warned the boy.

The men hesitated, then slowly fell back. They saw that the boy meant exactly what he had said.

"This is going to be a fair fight, and somebody is going to get good and properly pounded. There won't be any foul tactics as long as I've got a grip on this revolver," Jarvis warned the crowd.

The combatants were at each other with a rush. Once more they clinched.

The two desperate men swayed from side to side, neither seeming to be able to obtain advantage over the other.

Suddenly the Icelander's arms seemed to relax. He pushed his adversary from him, then with all the force in his powerful body, he concentrated on a swift blow.

The blow smote the labor leader on the side of the jaw.

Cavard struck the floor with terrific force.

With an animal-like roar the Icelander threw himself upon the prostrate body of his antagonist. Olsen, in his terrible rage, had lost all control of himself. He was slow to anger, but when once aroused he was a wild animal.

Gripping the other man's shoulders, he banged him on the hard floor with crushing force. All at once the big, powerful fingers of the Icelander encircled the neck of the labor leader. A look of triumph shone in Olsen's eyes.

"Segunder!"

It was Bob Jarvis who spoke.

"Segunder, stop! Stop, I tell you!"

But the man was past heeding even if he heard.

Still keeping the others covered with his weapon, Bob Jarvis sprang forward, gripping Olsen by the shoulder.

"Segunder! Segunder!" he shouted in the ear of his friend. "Stop! Stop, I tell you. You will kill him! You've won. Let go of him, I tell you!"

The Icelander gazed up blankly at the boy bending over him; then he turned once more to his punishment of the man beneath him.

Bob tugged to pull him off, but he might as well have tried to move one of the mountains of iron on the range.

Something must be done, and that quickly. Bob's mind worked with more rapidity than it ever had worked before.

"I hate to do so, but I've got to do it," he muttered.

With that he drew back and struck Olsen two swift blows on the side of the head. Jarvis' punch was no light thing. Olsen toppled from the body of his victim and rolled over on the floor.