Unconcerned, grinning, Black slouched to the door and out. Once straighten out that lazy-looking body and you would have a big man in Jesse Black. Yes, a big one and a quick one, too, maybe. The crowd made way for him unconsciously. No one jostled him. He was a marked man from that day. His lawyer, Small, leaned back in his chair, radiating waves of self-satisfaction as though he had but just gained a disputed point. It was a manner he affected when not on the floor in a frenzy of words and muscular action.
Jim Munson contrived to pass close by Jake Sanderson.
“So you followed me to find out about Mag, did you? Heap o’ good it did you! We knew you knew,” he bragged, insultingly.
The man’s face went white with wrath.
“Damn you!” he cried. His hand dropped to his belt.
The two glared at each other like fighting cocks. Men crowded around, suddenly aware that a quarrel was on.
“The Three Bars’s a gittin’ busy!” jeered Jim.
“Come, Jim, I want you.” It was Gordon’s quiet voice. He laid a restraining hand on Munson’s over-zealous arm.
“Dick Gordon, this ain’t your put-in,” snarled Sanderson. “Git out the way!” He shoved him roughly aside. “Now, snappin’ turtle,” to Jim, “the Three Bars’d better git busy!”
A feint at a blow, a clever little twist of the feet, and Munson sprawled on the floor, men pressing back to give him the full force of the fall. They believed in fair play. But Jim, uncowed, was up with the nimbleness of a monkey.