Then King looked at Bill McCartney. He was standing back against the table behind which Mike Cheney had stood earlier in the evening when there had been customers to serve. King had been cool and deliberate—now he felt the old demon rising in him and he struggled to gain control of himself. He realized now that he hated this man, though he could scarcely have told why. With a supreme effort he mastered his rising temper and stood regarding McCartney in silence. The latter, however, realizing that Currie was now at his mercy, and mastered by an uncontrollable desire to end the affair to his advantage, stepped deliberately in the direction of Currie who was cowering near the door.
"Stand back!" he roared, and the words were meant more for King than for the two or three men who made weak attempts to restrain him.
King, recognizing that McCartney was speaking to him, stepped deliberately between the two men.
"You'd better leave," he said, glancing behind him, and even as he spoke Currie opened the door and slipped out.
King was about to follow but turned as McCartney's voice came to him, muttering something he only half heard.
"You're not talking to me, are you?" he said.
McCartney bellowed his reply: "I'm talkin' to you, you son of a dog!"
King moved slowly towards McCartney. He faced the big foreman for a moment, his arms rigid at his sides. Suddenly McCartney's hand shot out and King stepped back just in time to avoid the full force of a blow that, as it was, glanced from his cheek. Slowly King's two hands came up and closed in a convulsive grip. While the men waited breathlessly he stood trembling from the struggle that was going on within him—then he wheeled quickly and going to the door, opened it, and went out.
In the darkness, King, without any thought of picking his way through the mud and water, hurried round the corner of Cheney's place and started down the roadway to where his horse stood tethered in front of old man Hurley's office. Only once did he pause. Just as he stepped into the street a great burst of loud laughter came to him from behind the door he had just closed. He knew what it meant and for a moment his grip upon himself weakened. He wanted to go back—he wanted to fight. For a moment he hesitated. Then his mind was clear again and he went on. All the way down the street, however, he could not help wondering how long he would have to wait.
Then he got up into the saddle and went off along the muddy trail that led west about half a mile to where his little shack stood upon a low ridge that ran in upon his land.