His throat began to ache and he could not speak, but gave each a racking hand-squeeze and turned away, his eyes burning, his heart beating, yet feeling lighter than since his first glimpse of the venomous circular.
On the steps outside he met Jim Barney face to face. He had hoped this would not happen., Since the day when, a little boy, he had fought Jimmy Dorr for whipping the twins, Vilette and Evelyn, fought with every muscle in his body a twisted whip-cord of indignation, he had had no such “bloody hate” for anything living as he now felt for Jim. It took all the self-control he possessed to answer the Kid’s sneering greeting calmly and pass on.
“Where have you cached the D. E. B? Money comes in handy when one has—” Jim never finished.
The double-barrelled shot was barely sped when Billy sprang upon him. Fortunately for Jim he was on the last step and had not far to fall. He had not expected Billy to retaliate. He knew that Billy prized the honors he expected to win, and did not believe he would forfeit them by fighting, no matter how great the provocation. Neither did he reckon on the reversal of his own maxim in life, “Might makes right.”
Billy was proverbially good-natured. His quick wit could turn most of the “joshing” back on the “josher,” and he had learned that fighting is usually an indulgence to the blood of the beast in us, rather than an act of devotion to right. But when the man slow to fight does become enraged, especially if it is in the just cause of others, he is twice an adversary; the blood of the beast joins with the spirit of man. Right then makes might.
Billy was younger, slenderer, less skilled; for the Kid valued his “good right arm” as his chief glory in life. But right arm and skill, any force that mere physical exercise had developed, met its Waterloo in such a tide of outraged spirit as enables a little woman with a carving fork, to put to flight desperadoes, or such as now nerved Billy’s arms.
In that grapple his fingers were pincers of steel. His doubled fists were derrick hammers, and every blow brought blood. The Kid did not have time even to think of his vaunted “strangle-hold,” his pet “trip-trick.” He was down and under—not under a man, but a fury all legs, arms, weight, crushing knee, strangling fingers powerful beyond belief.
So fast rained the blows that the by-standers, silenced by what they read in Billy’s face, hardly believed the fight begun before they saw the Kid’s resistance weaken, his body grow limp. Billy realized it, and ceased his onslaught.
“Say ‘enough,’ or I’ll kill you!” Billy’s words were not loud, but they carried a white-hot power to the half-conscious fellow under him.
“Enough,” came in a thick voice.