Matt hurried forward to where the so-called Thompson was struggling to get away from the cowboy.
"Hands off of me, McGlory!" panted the bedraggled youth. "You haven't any right to lay a finger on me, and you know it!"
"I haven't, eh?" growled McGlory. "Well, you just try to bolt, and I'll give you a run for your alley. You're a pretty specimen, ain't you? Oh, shucks! I'm plumb disgusted with you, and so's everybody else. What do you suppose the folks think, back in Madison?"
There was an exasperated rattle in the other's throat, but words and strength failed him, all at once, and he drooped limply in McGlory's arms.
"He's played out, Joe," said Matt. "Let him sit down for a minute and rest."
"What a mess he's made of this business," muttered McGlory angrily, as he allowed the flabby form he was holding to slip down on the rough cobblestones. "He hasn't as much sense as the law allows, and you can spread your blankets and go to sleep on that."
"You're positive he's the fellow you were looking for, Joe?" inquired Matt.
"Positive? Why, pard, I know him as well as I know my own picture in the looking-glass. See that scar?" and he indicated a thin red line over his cousin's right eyebrow. "I don't need even that to prove who he is," McGlory added.
"He told me his name was Thompson, and that he lived in Sausalito."
"He's liable to talk anything but straight—now. Let's get him somewhere to a hotel. Sufferin' sand hills! his folks would throw a fit if they could see him like this. His name's George Lorry, and he lives in Madison, Wisconsin. What's more, he's a cousin of mine, although that's nothing to congratulate myself about." McGlory bent down. "Able to walk, George?"