"We passed some words. Pretty soon I give him the lie! He made a reach for his gun. I told him I wasn't armed and dared him to try his fists. He takes off his belt, and we went at it. A strong man, but he don't know nothing about hand fighting. I had him about ready to give up and begging me to quit when this Jig, this girl-faced man you talk about—he pulls a gun and slugs me in the back of the head with it."
Removing his sombrero he showed on the back of his head the great welt which had been made when he struck the ground with the weight of Sinclair on top of him. It was examined with intense interest by the other two.
"Dirty work!" said Sandersen sympathetically.
The storekeeper said nothing at all, but began to fold up a bolt of cloth which lay half unrolled on the counter.
"It knocked me cold," continued Cartwright, "and when I come to, they wasn't no sign nor trace of 'em."
Buckling on the belt, he shoved the revolver viciously home in the holster.
"I'll land that pair before the posse gets to 'em, and when I land 'em
I won't do no arguing with fists!"
"Say, I call that nerve," put in the storekeeper, with patent admiration in his eyes, while he smoothed a fold of the cloth. "Running agin' one gent like Sinclair is bad enough—let alone tackling two at once. But you'd ought to take out a big insurance on your life, friend, before you take that trail. It's liable to be all out-trail and no coming back."
A great deal of enthusiasm faded from Cartwright's face.
"How come?" he asked briefly.