Fortune, his eyes wide with apprehension for his “pard,” retreated slowly, and watched.
What he saw was something of a revelation to him in the art of self-defense. The red-headed chap gave a pretty demonstration of coolness and skill as opposed to brute strength and unreasoning rage.
Whirling the hammer in short, vicious circles, Hibbard executed a furious attack. Clancy stood his ground until the fellow was close, then he sprang high into the air. His feet shot out, and the toe of one shoe landed on the wrist of the hand that held the hammer. The heavy weapon went clattering to the cement walk.
Then, while the driver stood disarmed, Clancy sailed into him with vigor and determination. In almost less time than it takes to tell of it, Hibbard was tripped, flung from his feet, and cast against the adobe wall.
The force of his fall dazed him, and he sat in a quivering heap, his back to the adobe and his eyes blinking up at Clancy.
“What’s this?” called the sharp voice of Rockwell, who came hurrying through the door.
“Hibbard picked a quarrel with me,” answered Clancy calmly. “His fists weren’t good enough, and he went after a monkey wrench and a hammer.”
The garage owner looked down on the driver.
“Haven’t you got any sense at all?” he asked sternly. “Do you think you’re helping yourself any by this kind of work?”
Hibbard shook his head, as though to clear the fog from his brain, and got up slowly.