"Keep back, y' sons-of-hell!" he snarled, "Sabota's gettin' what's coming to him!"
The Greek's eyes opened. His fingers touched the butt of the Ramblin'
Kid's revolver and began to close slowly over the handle of the weapon.
"Make him quit," one of the pool-room loafers whined; "he's killed him!"
The Ramblin' Kid saw Sabota reach for the gun. He answered the speaker and the Greek's effort to get the forty-four at the same time:
"Not yet—but now!" he cried with a low laugh and leaped with both heels squarely on the bloody face of Sabota! There was a horrible crunching sound as of bones and flesh being ground into pulp. The fingers about to close on the handle of the revolver grew limp, the Greek's head, a hideous, scarcely recognizable mass, slumped to one side and lay perfectly still.
An instant longer the Ramblin' Kid looked at him, then reached over, picked up his gun and slipped it into the holster at his hip.
As he straightened up, Tom Poole, the marshal, rushed into the pool-room. He covered the Ramblin' Kid with his revolver and placed him under arrest.
"You don't need to get excited, Tom!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed. "I didn't do nothin' but kill that damned black cur layin' there! Come on—I want to get out in th' air—I never like to stay around where dead skunks are!"
They moved toward the door.
Poole dropped his gun back in its scabbard and walked at the side of the now apparently peaceful young cowboy.