Neither moved. Their second drink was before them. Rock had one elbow on the bar, and he kept it there. Kerr stood between him and Duffy.
The big man loomed over Kerr. He looked down.
“Say, runt!” he bellowed. “Did you hear me say I wanted room?”
“Seems to me you got plenty,” Kerr answered. “Nobody’s crowdin’ you.”
For answer Duffy seized him by both shoulders, picked him off his feet, as if he had been a child, and set him on the bar. Kerr stood probably five foot four. He never carried a six-shooter. He was handy with a rifle, but that was not a weapon he carried in town.
Duffy kept that iron grip on his shoulders. The little man was helpless. Faint snickers arose in the room. Kerr’s face flushed. He felt the indignity. But he said nothing, only looked Duffy coldly in the eye. And Duffy began to shake him until his head snapped back and forth, yanking him at last roughly off the bar, so that his boot heels struck the floor with a crack.
“Buy a drink for the crowd, runt,” he commanded.
“You go to hell,” Kerr defied him. “Buy your own drinks. You’re too big for me to fight with my hands. But you lay off’n me long enough for me to get a gun, and I’ll shoot with you for the drinks, you side of raw beef on the hoof!”
Duffy’s face wreathed in a grin. He reached his gorilla-like arms and took a step forward. Kerr dodged sidewise. And for the first time Duffy seemed to see and recognize Rock. He stared briefly. Rock looked back at him, expressionless. Duffy turned on Kerr again. His hand crept toward the gun in his belt.
“You’ll buy a drink, or you’ll dance,” he said meaningly. “Look spry, little feller! Buy drinks or dance.”