To his utter disgust, the man, pursued by an armed countryside, found Harley Kennan, his latest victim, like the reporter, to be weaponless. Dismounted, he snarled in his rage and disappointment and deliberately kicked the helpless man in the side. He had drawn back his foot for the second kick, when Michael took a hand—or a leg, rather, sinking his teeth into the calf of the back-drawn leg about to administer the kick.
With a curse the man jerked his leg clear, Michael’s teeth ribboning flesh and trousers.
“ Good boy, Michael!” Harley applauded from where he lay helplessly pinioned under his horse. “Hey! Michael!” he continued, lapsing back into bêche-de-mer, “chase ’m that white fella marster to hell outa here along bush!”
“ I’ll kick your head off for that,” the man gritted at
