Coutlass was still on his knees, throwing out the last few handfuls of loose dirt.
Schillingschen stood almost over him, so close that the thrown dirt struck against his legs.
We took up positions in the shadow, one to either side, almost afraid to breathe, I cursing because the rifle quivered in my two hands like the proverbial aspen leaf.

The prospect of shooting a white man--even such a thorough-paced blackguard white as Schillingschen--made me as nervous as a school-girl at a grown-up party.
At last Coutlass groped down shoulder-deep and drew the box out.
"Give that to me!" Schillingschen shouted like a thunder-clap, making me jump as if I were the one intended.
The moonlight gleamed on the tin box.

Coutlass did not drop it but turned his head to look behind him.

Schillingschen swung for his face with a clenched fist and the whole weight and strength of his ungainly body.

He would have broken the jaw he aimed at had the blow landed; but the Greek's wit was too swift.
He kicked like a mule, hard and suddenly, ducking his head, and then diving backward between the German's legs that were outspread to give him balance and leverage for the fist-blow.