“Give them a show, boys!” some one said.
“There’s my passport, gentlemen.”—[page 56].
The crowd drew back and watched the combat; watched with unconcern until they saw their comrade, Rummey Joe, weakening in the grasp of his antagonist; until knives flashed in the hand of each, and fierce blows were struck on both sides. Then, when Rummey Joe, uttering a shriek of pain, went down underneath the knife of the victor, there was a roar and a rush, and the man who had conquered their favorite was borne down by half a dozen strong arms, menaced by as many sharp, glittering knives.
But again the scene shifted.
An agile form was bounding about among them; blows fell swift as rain; there was a lull in the combat, and when the wildly struggling figures, some scattered upon the floor, some thrown back upon each other, recovered from their consternation, they saw that the convict had struggled up upon one elbow, while, directly astride of his prostrate body, stood the man who had asked for his credentials, fierce contempt in his face, and, in either hand, a heavy six shooter.
“Don’t pull, boys, I’ve got the drop on ye! Cowards, to tackle a single man, six of ye!”
“By Heavens, he’s killed Rummey!”
“No matter; it was a fair fight, and Rummey at the bottom of the blame.”