Some slight noise caused Westcott to straighten up, and turn partially around.

He had barely time to fling up one arm in the warding off of a blow.

The next instant was one of mad, desperate struggle, in which he realised only that he dare not relax his grip on the wrist of his unknown antagonist.

It was a fierce, intense grapple, every muscle strained to the utmost, silent except for the stamping of feet, deadly in purpose.
The knife fell from the cramped fingers, but the fellow struggled like a demon, clutching at the miner's throat, but unable to confine his arms.

Twice Westcott drove his clenched right into the shadowed face, smashing it the last time so hard the man's grip relaxed, and he went staggering back.