Molloy fell on his head and shoulders, a crashing fall, and lay still, after sliding out on the ground in a limp heap.
The thing was done so quickly, and was such a surprise, that the men stood in breathless silence, staring. Then one of them came up to Clayton and offered his hand, which Clayton took.
“I didn’t think ye’d do it, Pool,” he confessed. “But you’re a game rooster, after all; and here’s my hand on’t!”
Molloy groaned, writhed about, and then came slowly to a sitting position, dabbing at his face weakly with his hands, and fluttering his eyelids. For a minute he didn’t know what had happened to him. Then he saw the grinning faces about him, and Pool Clayton standing, white-faced and with arms folded, near by.
At sight of that face, evoking recollections of what had happened, Molloy uttered a scream of rage, and drew his revolver. He leveled it quick as a flash and fired, uttering an oath as he did so. Instantly, however, one of the outlaws sprang at him and succeeded in striking his arm, thus turning the weapon aside. He pushed Molloy back violently, and took the revolver from his hands.
“None o’ that!” he cried sternly. “We don’t do that kind o’ work, ye know! If you’re licked, you’re licked; and you’d ought to take it like a man.”
Molloy turned on him, springing to his feet.
“Gimme my revolver!” he commanded.
The man tossed it to one of his friends.
“Not on yer life. I don’t!”