The fellow struck him in the face. The old man lifted him in the air and dashed him to the ground with a snarling cry. His gesture was like that of one who slams a biting cat upon the floor. The man did not rise.
"You've killed him!" cried Milton.
"Damn 'im—I don't care!"
The man was about thirty-five years of age, a slender, thin-faced man with tobacco-stained whiskers. The fellows knew him for a sneaking fellow, but they plead for him.
"Don't hit 'im agin, Bacon. He's got enough."
The fellow sat up and looked around. The blood was streaming from his nose and from a wound in his head. He had a savage and hunted look. He was unsubdued, but was too much dazed to be able to do anything more than swear at them all.
"What a' yuh chasen' me fur, y' damn cowards? Six on one!"
"What're you do-un ridin' across the country like this fur?"
"None o' your business, you low-lived"—
Bacon brought the doubled leading-strap which he held in his hand down over the fellow's shoulders with a sounding slap.