"Yah," assented Rhues. "I thought we was comin' to see a hoss—th' kind o' nag this feller pertended to be. But now—look at him! He's just a low-down ——"
VB sprang toward him.
"You—" he breathed, "you—you hound! Why, you aren't fit to come into sight of this horse. You—you apologize to that horse!" he demanded, and even through his molten rage the words sounded unutterably silly.
Yet he went on, fists clenched, carried beyond reason or balance by the instinctive hate for this man and love for the black animal behind him.
Rhues laughed again.
"Who says so, besides you, you ——. Why, you ain't no more man'n that hoss is hoss!"
He saw then that he had reckoned poorly. The greenhorn, the boy who cowered at the thought of a man's dissipation, had disappeared, and in his stead stood a quivering young animal, poising for a pounce.
Being a bully, Rhues was a coward. So when VB sprang, and he knew conflict was unavoidable, his right hand whipped back. The fingers closed on the handle of his automatic as VB made the first step. They made their hold secure as the Easterner's arm drew back. They yanked at the gun as that fist shot out.
It was a good blow, a clean blow, a full blow right on the point of the chin, and, quickly as it had been delivered, the right was back in an instinctive guard and the left had rapped out hard on the snarling mouth. Rhues went backward and down, unbalanced by the first shock, crushed by the second; and the third, a repeated jab of the left, caught him behind the ear and stretched him helpless in the dust.
His fingers relaxed their hold on the gun that he had not been quick enough to use, so lightning-like was the attack from this individual he had dubbed a "kid." VB stepped over the prostrate form, put his toe under the revolver, and flipped it a dozen yards away.