"Why did you let him get up?" asked Tubby, his round cheeks glowing with excitement.
"Because I want to give him plenty of rope," said Rob, a grim look creeping over his usually pleasant face.
A sudden furious onrush on the part of Clark prohibited further conversation.
"Go in and eat him up, Clark!" shouted a lanky, long-legged cow-puncher, one of several who had been attracted by the rumpus.
"Looks as if your friend had developed a sudden attack of indigestion," grinned Tubby delightedly, as Rob's fist collided with the advancing Clark's jaw, much to the latter's astonishment.
"Never seed nothing like it," commented the landlord, somewhat less melancholy now. "Clark's the champeen round here."
"He may be when he's got a gun to back him up, but not when he has to fall back on his fists," retorted Merritt.
"Look out!" he yelled suddenly, as the young cow-puncher, finding that fair methods seemed to have failed, attempted a foul blow below Rob's belt.
But there was no need of the warning. Rob had seen the blow coming halfway, swiftly delivered as it was. The cowardly attempt at foul tactics thoroughly enraged him.
"I thought Westerners fought fair," he gritted out, gripping the astonished cow-puncher by the wrist of the offending hand. Before Clark could gasp his astonishment, his other wrist was captive.