Crawford struggled to his feet, striving to jerk free o£ Bailey. But the man had him about the waist, head buried against Crawford's belly, hair hanging in greasy yellow streamers, groaning with the pain of that knee Crawford had given him in the groin.
Innes still had his Remington. He gripped it with his left hand too, now, rolling back with the weapon in both fists to line it up on Crawford. Struggling with Bailey, Crawford could do only one thing. He threw the weight of his whole body toward Innes. Bailey tried to jerk him back, but not soon enough. Before Innes got that Remington turned in the right direction, Crawford was close enough to lift his leg above the man's face. He saw Innes's eyes open wide with the realization. Then he felt flesh and bone crunch beneath his stamping boot.
Lifting his leg robbed Crawford of his balance, and he fell backward with Bailey's next lunging jerk. They struck the wall so hard the whole building shook, and another rain of yeso spattered down over them.
"Cristo, will somebody take it out? Oh, please, somebody come and take it out—"
Bailey rose up, straddling Crawford. Before the man could strike, Crawford doubled in beneath him and got his legs twisted around so he could heave. Bailey went back with a cry, stumbling into the bench. The plank splintered beneath his body, and the bench collapsed with him. Innes was getting to his feet, hoarse, desperate sobs rending him. He pawed blindly at his mutilated face with his free hand, blinking his eyes as he tried to find Crawford. He must have caught Crawford's movement against the wall. He whirled that way with the Remington coming up.
Crawford jumped toward him, catching the gun in both hands. Still unable to see, Innes clung desperately to the six-shooter. When Crawford yanked the gun around, it pulled Innes too, swinging him against the wall. Unable to tear the Remington free, Crawford let go with one hand and lurched in close to sink his right fist deep into Innes's square belly.
"That for your three-quarter-pound pull, you pordiosero," shouted somebody from behind Crawford, "that for your bacon grease—"
Innes sagged against the wall with a pitiful sob, still trying to pull the gun against Crawford. Crawford brought that fist in again.
"Oh, madre, madre, please come and get it out—"
"That for your hair trigger, you lépero, I hope it gives you corajes, I hope it gives you worse than fits of the spleen—"