“You lie!” said Buck Fargo. “You tried to hit him. You’ve played that trick once too often, and I’m—going to hand you something!”
He lunged at Schaeffer, who stepped back swiftly and threw up his hands. In an instant the crowd surged around him, shutting out those of his friends who were racing to his assistance. Fargo was on the point of swinging at the Texan’s jaw when suddenly the fellow staggered, his face contorted with pain, a yell issued from his bloodless lips.
“I’m spiked!” he cried furiously. “Lemme get my hands on the dog that did it! I’ll—”
His eyes met those of Lefty Locke, who stood close beside him on the right, and in a second both arms shot forward, his muscular fingers fastening with a convulsive grip on the southpaw’s throat.
“You hound!” he frothed, emphasizing each word by a vicious shake. “You’ve put me out of business. I can’t play for weeks. It’s my left—”
At this point Locke recovered from his astonishment, and, with a desperate effort, managed to tear the hands from their choking hold.
“I never touched you,” he denied. “I wouldn’t—”
Wild with pain and rage, Schaeffer frothed out an insult, and Lefty promptly dealt him an open-hander on the mouth.
Cries of approval greeted the blow. Fargo was trying to get into the mix-up, and others showed their desire to have a hand in the Texan’s punishment. The latter’s fist shot out, but Locke parried skillfully. Three or four of the visiting team arrived on the run, and a general fight was imminent. The crowd was suddenly thrust aside, and Jim Brennan appeared.