"You'd kill me 'fore I c'd draw," whined the man.
"You've got me—exact. Stand on your feet—it's too far to reach when I want to hit you again." The man got to his feet and stood cowering before the Texan.
"Now you answer me—an' answer me straight. Every time you lie I'm goin' to knock you down—an' every time you drop, I'm goin' to kick you up again. Where's that girl?"
"Purdy's got her."
"Where?"
"Over—over to the hang-out."
"What hang-out?"
"Cass Grimshaw's—" Again the Texan's fist shot out, again Long Bill crumpled upon the floor of the coulee, and again the Texan kicked him to his feet, where he stood shrinking against the cutbank with his hands pressed to his face. He was blubbering openly, the sound issuing from between the crushed lips in a low-pitched, moaning tremolo—a disgusting sound, coming from a full-grown man—like the pule of a brainless thing.
The Texan shook him, roughly: "Shut up! Where's Purdy? I know Cass Grimshaw. Don't try to tell me he's into any such dirty work as this."
"Purdy's in Grimshaw's gang," yammered the man, "Grimshaw ain't in on it—only Purdy. If she ain't in the hang-out, I don't know where she's at. Purdy wouldn't tell me. He'd be afraid I'd double-cross him."