The latter at once smote him across the mouth with 38 open palm at the vile epithet that followed. Sorenson staggered, then lunged forward, tugging at something in his hip-pocket, while the table and dishes went over in a crash.
Before he could draw the weapon Steele’s fingers shot forth and seized his wrist; his other hand closed about Sorenson’s throat in an iron grasp. Slowly under that powerful grip the younger man’s struggles ceased, his eyes dilated, his knees yielded and gave way. The revolver was wrenched from his numbed hold. His eyeballs seemed afire; his breast heaved in violent spasms for the denied breath; and his heart appeared about to burst.
“You miserable skunk!” Weir said, barely moving his mouth. “I ought to choke the life out of you.” Then he released his hold. “I’ll keep this gun––and use it if you ever try to pull another on me! Now, make tracks. Remember, too, to pay your bill as you go out.”
When Sorenson had straightened his coat, giving Weir a malignant look during the process, he departed. His air of disdainful insolence had quite evaporated, but that he considered the action between them only begun was plain, though he spoke not a word. Weir, however, heard him give a quieting explanation to the waiter hovering outside, who had been drawn by the crash of dishes.
“Thought a fight was going on,” the aproned dispenser of food said to Steele when he and the girl emerged.
“Just an accident. Nothing broken, I imagine,” was the response.
“You couldn’t break those dishes with a hammer; they’re made for rough work.”
“If there’s any damage, this may cover it.” And Steele tossed the fellow a dollar.
Outside the restaurant he slipped his hand inside Mary Johnson’s arm and led her along the street. With him he had brought the old strapped grip.