Crack! Snaky Pete’s heavy fist shot out, and struck the youth full in the face, knocking him down.
Clayton fell, clawing at the air; and then lay still where he had fallen.
The outlaw leader stepped toward him, as if he meant to administer a kick in addition to the blow.
“You’re the one that’s a tarnal coward!” old Nomad muttered. “I never seen a man o’ that kind that wasn’t.”
He was apparently the only calm person there; though it was his life that was threatened.
Snaky Pete lifted his heavy boot to kick Clayton, then repented of his intention.
“Let him lay!” he snarled. “He’ll come ’round all right. And we’ll move on. He ain’t got the spirit of a skunk.”
The outlaws began to get their horses ready for moving on. Snaky Pete walked up to his prisoner. He looked fairly fiendish in the flickering firelight.
“Don’t git gay over this!” he growled. “You’ll go over the range in the morning, just the same. That young skunk will come ’round bimeby and foller on, and then will be meek as a kitten. He’ll finish you with that bullet, and be glad to, before we git through with him.”
The sage old trapper did not answer this brutal speech. He had learned wisdom with his years.