With a drive of his hand, Bayard's fingers fastened on the gun and the jerk he gave the weapon tore Lynch from his footing.
"You'll not, Benny!"—in a whisper, securing the gun, and flinging it into the brush behind him, gripping the other man by his shirt front, "You won't, by God, if I have to choke you black in the face!"
Lynch drew back against the cabin wall, struggling to free himself.
"It's my fight, Bruce!" ... breathing in gasps, eyes wide, voice strained almost to the point of sobbing.
"I'll let go when you promise me to go into your house an' sit there an' keep quiet until I finish my work ... or, until you're molested."
"Not after two years! Not after my dad...."
Tears stood in the miner's eyes and he struck out viciously with his fists; then Bayard, thrusting his head forward, flung out his arms in a clinging, binding embrace and they went down on the trail, a tangle of limbs. Benny was no match in such a combat and in a trice he was on his face, arms held behind him and Bayard was lashing his wrists together with his bridle reins.
"Stand up!" he said, sharply, when he had finished.
He picked up the revolver and, with a hand under one of the bound arms, helped Benny to his feet.
"I'll apologize later. I'll do anything. I came out here to prevent a killin', Benny, an' my work ain't done yet."