Big Anderson roared with anger and glared at Stevens; but, while he rubbed the red mark on his cheek, he made no move that the frock-coated stranger might have interpreted as hostile.
“Now, mister, it’s your turn to teach him not to go callin’ names.”
Big Anderson stepped toward Stevens with blood in his eyes.
“Mister, yuh stand still an’ take it or I’ll——”
The stranger had no need to voice his threat, for Hi Stevens stopped in his tracks and waited. Anderson yanked Stevens’ ear, raised a big, hairy paw, and clouted him on the side of the head with such force that Stevens reeled backward.
“Now get the hell out of here!” the stranger snapped.
The two bullies, murderous with rage, both at each other and at the stranger, whirled about and hurried into the Ace High Saloon. The little man waited until they disappeared. Then he returned his guns to their holsters, with a movement as swift as that with which he had drawn them, whirled on his heel, and stalked toward the hotel.
“Baldy” Kane, a slender man of forty whose face and head were as guiltless of hair as an egg and whose gray eyes and long, sallow face were entirely devoid of expression, watched the black-coated stranger enter the hotel, then turned to a friend and asked:
“Who’s the little rooster?”
His friend nodded toward the ragged boy, who was now walking down the dusty street by the side of Pop Howes.