This time he landed one on the man's ribs, and down he went in a heap.
The other two started to interfere, but out went the boy's left and one of them landed on all fours in a jiffy.
Spat!
Our hero's right caught the other on the chin and he went, too.
As was to be expected, all three of the cowboys made moves to pull their guns.
But Young Wild West got ahead of them.
"Let go of those playthings—quick!" he shouted. "I will show you galoots that you have got to be more civil with us. Get up and say you are sorry for interfering with us."
There was something about the manner of the boy that told them that they really had made a mistake. The revolver was held by a hand that was steady as a rock, and there was no doubt in their minds but that lead would fly from it if they disobeyed.
They let go their revolvers and scrambled to their feet.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Cheyenne Charlie. "A fine lot of galoots you are! Young Wild West is only a boy, all right, but I reckon he kin lick a stagecoach load of sich fellers as you are! Make 'em do ther tenderfoot dance, Wild. Go on—jest fur fun!"