Dean leaped on Shipton, clawing away at the soft snow, pummeling him like an eighth grade schoolyard brawler while Shipton, still clutching his ice ax in one hand, swung at Dean, catching him on the cheek and face with the side of the solid handle.
He swung his ice ax into the wall in front of him, dug in the toes of his crampons and began to ascend toward Dean.
Shipton continued to chop, as if deciding this and not a direct blow from the ice ax was a far better way to remove this annoying impediment to his foolproof plan.
The leg wound from Shipton's flailing ice ax had been an eight-stitcher of no permanent consequence.
Shipton swung his ice ax again, inching up closer to Dean.
But his cry came an instant too late as Shipton plummeted past him, his ice ax swinging in a rip across Dean's calf as he plummeted backward into space, and down to the rocks and churning river below.