“Look out for him! He’s dangerous!” warned some of the bystanders.
“I can’t help it if he is,” replied Jerry. “We can’t let him ruin the tires.”
“This is the time I do it!” cried Bronco Pete, as he made a lunge for the front wheel. Jerry sprang forward and the crowd held its breath, for it seemed as if the boy was right in the path of the knife.
But Jerry knew what he was about. With a quick motion he kicked the cowboy lightly on the wrist, the blow knocking the knife from his hand, and sending it some distance away.
“Look out now, sonny!” called a man to Jerry. “No one ever hit Pete an’ lived after it.”
It seemed that Jerry was in a dangerous position. Pete, enraged at being foiled of his purpose, uttered a beast-like roar, and reached back to where his revolver rested at his hip in a belt. Jerry never moved an inch, but looked the man straight in the eye.
“Here! None of that Pete!” called a voice suddenly, and a big man pushed his way through the crowd, and grabbed the cowboy’s arm before he had time to draw his gun. “If you don’t want to get into trouble move on!”
“All right, Marshall; all right,” replied Pete, the desire of shooting seeming to die out as he looked at the newcomer. “I were only havin’ a little fun with th’ tenderfoot.”
“You didn’t appear to scare him much,” remarked the town marshall, who had seen the whole thing. “You had your nerve with you all right, son,” he added, to Jerry.
“That’s what he had,” commented Pete. “There ain’t many men would have done what he did, an’ I admire him for it. Put it there, stranger,” and Pete, all the anger gone from him, extended a big hand, which Jerry grasped heartily.