Rathburn suddenly grasped him by the throat. “What are you tryin’ to say?” he asked sternly, shaking the Mexican like a rat.
Gomez broke away, his black eyes darting fire. “You are a fool!” he exclaimed. “You get nothing. Even your woman, she is stole right under your eyes. Doane, he goes there, and he gets her. She fall for him fast. Then she talks to you with sugar in her mouth, and you believe. Bah! You think the Señorita Mallory–––”
Rathburn’s open palm crashed against the Mexican’s mouth.
“Don’t speak her name, you greaser!”
Gomez staggered back under the force of the slap. His eyes were pin points of fire. He raised his right hand to his mouth and then to the brim of his sombrero. His breath came in hissing gasps, as the hatred blazed in his glittering eyes.
Rathburn’s face was white under its heavy coating of tan. He saw the few men at the bar turn and look in their direction, and he realized instinctively that these men were gamblers and shady characters who were probably friends of Eagen and his gang.
“I give you my regards,” cried Gomez in a frenzy of rage. “You––gringo!”
His right hand tipped his sombrero in a lightning move, and there was a flash in the sunlight filtering through the back windows, as Rathburn’s gun barked at his hip.
Gomez crumpled backward to the floor, as the knife dropped from his grasp at the beginning of the throw.