As the moonlight glinted on the barrel of the automatic, he brought the whip down with a crash on Philip's head--and then again and again, and Philip pitched backward into the snow.
He was not wholly unconscious.

He knew that as soon as he had fallen the half-breed had turned again to the dogs.

He could hear him as he straightened out the traces.

In a subconscious sort of way, Philip wondered why he did not take advantage of his opportunity and finish what he had failed to do with the bullet through the window.

Philip heard him run back for his gun, and tried to struggle to his knees.
Instead of the shot he half expected there came the low "Hoosh--hoosh--marche!" of the forest man's voice.