“Is that so?” observed Denver still standing at a crouch and one or two of the men walked off.
“Come on, boys,” they said but Meacham stood glowering and Chatwourth stepped out in front of him. “I hear,” he said to Denver, “that you’ve been making your brag that you kin whip me with a handful of stones.”
“Never mind, now,” replied Denver, “I’m not looking for trouble. You go on and leave me alone.”
“I’ll go when I damned please!” cried Chatwourth in a passion and as he advanced on Denver the crowd behind him suddenly gave a concerted shove. Denver saw the surge coming and stepped aside to avoid it, undetermined whether to strike out or shoot; but as he was slipping away Slogger Meacham made a rush and struck him a quick blow in the neck. He whirled and struck back at him, the air was full of fists and guns, swung like clubs to rap him on the head; and then he went down 230with Meacham on top of him and a crashing blow ringing in his ears. When he came to his senses he was stripped and mauled and battered, and a stranger stood over him with a gun.
“You’re my prisoner,” he said and Denver sat up startled.
“Why–what’s the matter?” he asked looking about at the crowd that had gathered on the scene of the fight, “what’s the matter with that jasper over there?”
“He’s dead–that’s all,” answered the officer laughing shortly, “you hit him over the head with this gun.”
“I did not!” burst out Denver, “I never even drew it. Say, who is that fellow, anyway?”
“Name was Meacham,” returned the officer, “come on.”