“Move!” said Maurie.
“Start!” said Ben Craig.
But the same thing that made the hair of Jacqueline red made the blood of Harry hot.
“I’ll see you damned first,” he said thickly.
Instantly six iron hands gripped him. He was whirled, and, struggling vainly, borne across the floor toward the door. A universal clapping of hands came from the edges of the hall. It was understood that Harry had insulted the lovely stranger, and in the West, a woman, whether beautiful or ugly, may be treated with familiar words but must be treated with reverent thought.
At the very threshold of the door that led from the main hall into the little anteroom where guns and hats were piled, Harry managed to wriggle loose. The fury of his anger was sobering him a little and restoring the nerves to his muscular control. He broke loose with a curse and swung feebly, uncertainly, at the nearest of his prosecutors. Carey and Craig ducked to rush and grapple with Harry; but big Maurie, with the thought of Miss Silvestre and “real men” floating in his brain, drew back his sledge-hammer right fist and smashed it into the face of young During.
Harry pitched back through the door as if a dozen hands had thrown him. The three turned and made straight for Jac like three little boys returning to their mother for praise due to a virtuous act after a day of naughtiness and spankings. The women around the hall were silent. They had heard the dull thud as that fist drove home. The men applauded the murmurs. It was the custom to applaud Maurie Gordon.
But when the three reached Jac, she sat white of face and still of eye.
“This don’t happen often,” began Carey.
“I never see anything like it before,” added Craig.