Brenchfield completely ignored Phil’s presence.
The two men got off their horses.
Royce Pederstone turned the water on at the tap at the trough, to which a hose was already attached. He directed the nozzle through a broken window pane, squirting a thin, strong stream directly on the upturned face of the open-mouthed and heavily-breathing Swede.
With a grunt the huge fellow spread himself.
The Mayor jerked off the water, then he and Royce Pederstone sprang on their horses and took up positions at different sides of the yard.
Jim and Phil in curiosity kept their eyes glued to the dirty window.
Growling fiercely, Hanson scrambled to his feet. His usually handsome and childlike face was contorted with rage and horrible to see. His eyes, bloodshot and bleared, stood out wildly in his head, his teeth showed like the teeth of a snarling puma and a foamy lather slithered from his mouth down on to his huge, hairy, muscle-heaving chest. He stood over six feet––a man of 79 gigantic proportions, with every inch of him tuned and in perfect symmetry.
But he seemed madness incarnate.
With a fierce oath, he wiped the water from his face. He staggered and bumped into an anvil, striking his knee against the metal. He swore again and, in his mounting anger, he seized the anvil in his great hands, lifted it bodily from its stand and heaved it into a corner––a feat which four strong men, at any time, would have experienced difficulty in performing.
“Great Cæsar!” whispered Phil in awe.