"What do you fellows want?"
They paused, abashed by his intrepid manner. "No offense, young man. We ain't after you. It's that Yaller Heathen.... The kind that robs us of a chance to live."
"Po Lun has never robbed anyone of a chance to live. He's our cook ... and my friend. You leave him alone."
"He sends all his money back to China," sneered another coming closer, brandishing a stick. "A fine American, ain't he?"
"A better one than you," said Robert hotly. Anger got the better of his judgment and he snatched the stick out of the fellow's hand, broke it, threw it to the ground.
Savagely they fell upon him. He went down, stunned by a blow on the head, a sense of crushing weight that overwhelmed his strength. He was vaguely conscious of a tirade of strange words, of an arm at the end of which was a meat cleaver, lashing about. The vindictive bark of a pistol. Shouts, feet running. A blue-coated form. A vehicle with champing horses that stood by.
"Are you hurt very bad, young feller?"
Robert moved his arms and legs. They appeared intact. He rose, stiffly. "Where's Po Lun?"
"In the wagon."
Robert, turning, observed an ambulance. "Not--dead?"