"Who whipped?" was again asked.
"Yeh—who hollered?"
Ignoring these questions, Windy continued.
"The big Indian and the Judge of the Court both said they hadn't never seen such sledge-hammer blows as I hit. It was them blows that put my shoulder out of joint. But I fixed his eye. You couldn't have told it from a knot-hole in a burnt tree. Time he aimed a second socdologer at me I was ready. The crowd roared like a camp-meeting. We fell to it. He got a straddle of my head and chawed my finger. There wasn't no place for me to git holt owing to the fact my head was pinned in twix his legs. Jean britches didn't taste well and was ungodly tough. But I was resolute. I found the right place and I chawed like hell. But would he let go of my finger? No, and I finally had to knock half his teeth out to git my finger out his mouth."
"You tanned him—hey?"
"You mauled him, Windy?"
"You beat the Springfield stuffing out of him?"
"And nobody parted you?"
Ignoring these questions, Windy took a fresh start. "And there's no telling how long it might have lasted, us two going 'round and 'round and up and down and every which way. I was eternally mauling the ding-blasted daylights out of him when the Judge got hold of me and asked as a favor if I wouldn't put off the finish till next day. He said he couldn't get nobody into court if I didn't and so I—I hollered."
There was a moment of profound silence. Windy shifted his weight from one stiff leg to the other, stroked his bandaged arm and sighed.