Hopalong smashed his insulter squarely between the eyes with all the power of his sinewy body behind the blow, knocking him in a heap under the table. Then he quickly glanced at the card players and saw a hostile movement. His gun was out in a flash and he covered the trio as he walked up to them. Never in all his life had he felt such a desire to kill. His eyes were diamond points of accumulated fury, and those whom he faced quailed before him.
“Yu scum! Draw, please draw! Pull yore guns an' gimme my chance! Three to one, an' I'll lay my guns here,” he said, placing them on the bar and removing his hands. “'Nearer My God to Thee' is purty appropriate fer yu just now! Yu seem to be a-scared of yore own guns. Git down on yore dirty knees an' say good an' loud that yu eats dirt! Shout out that yu are too currish to live with decent men,” he said, even-toned and distinct, his voice vibrant with passion as he took up his Colts. “Get down!” he repeated, shoving the weapons forward and pulling back the hammers.
The trio glanced at each other, and all three dropped to their knees and repeated in venomous hatred the words Hopalong said for them.
“Now git! An' if I sees yu when I leaves I'll send yu after yore friend. I'll shoot on sight now. Git!” He escorted them to the door and kicked the last one out.
His miner friend still leaned against the bar and looked his approval.
“Well done, youngster! But yu wants to look out—that man,” pointing to the now groping victim of Hopalong's blow, “is th' marshal of this town. He or his pals will get yu if yu don't watch th' corners.”
Hopalong walked over to the marshal, jerked him to his feet and slammed him against the bar. Then he tore the cheap badge from its place and threw it on the floor. Reaching down, he drew the marshal's revolver from its holster and shoved it in its owner's hand.
“Yore th' marshal of this place an' it's too good for me, but yore gain' to pick up that tin lie,” pointing at the badge, “an' yore goin' to do it right now. Then yore gain' to get kicked out of that door, an' if yu stops runnin' while I can see yu I'll fill yu so full of holes yu'll catch cold. Yore a sumptious marshal, yu are! Yore th' snortingest ki-yi that ever stuck its tail atween its laigs, yu are. Yu pop-eyed wall flower, yu wants to peep to yoreself or some papoose'll slide yu over th' Divide so fast yu won't have time to grease yore pants. Pick up that license-tag an' let me see you perculate so lively that yore back'll look like a ten-cent piece in five seconds. Flit!”
The marshal, dazed and bewildered, stooped and fumbled for the badge. Then he stood up and glanced at the gun in his hand and at the eager man before him. He slid the weapon in his belt and drew his hand across his fast-closing eyes. Cursing streaks of profanity, he staggered to the door and landed in a heap in the street from the force of Hopalong's kick. Struggling to his feet, he ran unsteadily down the block and disappeared around a corner.
The bartender, cool and unperturbed, pushed out three glasses on his treat: “I've seen yu afore, up in Cheyenne—'member? How's yore friend Red?” He asked as he filled the glasses with the best the house afforded.