Molloy could hardly believe his eyes, when he saw that Clayton was coolly preparing to fight him. He sprang at him, but one of the men caught and held him.
“Meet him fair,” he was adjured; “meet him fair!”
“Oh, I’ll meet him fair!” Molloy snarled, really amazed by the discovery that he would have to fight; “and I’ll hammer him to a pulp.”
He shook himself free of the man’s hands, and began to take off his own coat and roll up his sleeves. His arms were big and red, covered with freckles, and unpleasant looking.
Clayton’s arms, as he bared them, were white as a girl’s, above the tan circles of his wrists; but, white as they were, they looked firm and hard and muscular. His face, too pale, did not show fear now, nor cowardice.
“Now I’m ready for you!” he said quietly.
“And here you git it!” howled Molloy, his anger flaming red in his freckled face. “Look out, for I’m coming!”
He leaped and swung, thinking to knock Clayton down at a blow. To his surprise, Clayton side-stepped and dodged, so that the blow, meant for his face, went over his head.
Then—crack! Clayton’s hard white fist fell full on the freckled face of the bully, and Molloy tumbled backward, and would have fallen if one of the outlaws had not caught him.
Molloy was dazed by that blow; but he saw that if he did not now whip Clayton he would lose his standing with these men.