Still brandishing the club above the young lawyer's head with his right hand, the patrolman shoved him roughly in the chest with his left. He was obviously seeking to force Morgan into striking at him so that, given a specious plea of self-defence, he might crack his skull.
It was then the voice of Boone sounded from the rear:
"Yes, hit him—I dare you, too!"
The officer wheeled, to see the tall and physically impressive figure of the mountain man standing the width of the sidewalk away. He held a pistol, not levelled but swinging at his side, and as if in silent testimony that it was not a mere plaything a thin wisp of smoke still eddied about its mouth and the acrid smell of burnt powder came insidiously out through the door.
Boone strolled forward.
"Mr. Wallifarro, get back in that car," he directed. "This blue-belly isn't going to trouble you."
"What the hell have you got to do with this?" bellowed the officer, but the club came down. "You are under arrest."
"Show me your warrant."
"I don't need no warrant."
The crowd, including those who had fled from the registration room, hung back in a yapping but hesitant circle. Blackjacking non-combatants had proven keen sport, but this fellow with the revolver in a hand that seemed used to revolvers, and a gleam in the eye that seemed to relish the situation, gave them pause.