“That’s about all,” he growled. “Let him go.”
“Are you dry-nursin’ this?” asked Cultus curiously.
“Never mind what I’m doin’,” replied Van Deen harshly. “When I tell yuh to let him loose, I mean what I say.”
“There’s a funny thing about me,” said Cultus in a conversational tone, “I hardly ever pay any attention to what I’m told.”
“Well, this is once yuh will,” declared Van Deen, his eyes hardening.
Cultus started to raise his open hand, as though to spank the luckless Marsh, and Van Deen made a grab at his wrist. But Van Deen’s clutching hand missed, the open hand snapped shut, described a short arc and landed square on Van Deen’s chin.
It was a downward punch, not travelling over twelve inches, but it knocked Van Deen flat on his face. Cultus whirled Alden Marsh around, started him towards the doorway on the run, and sent him sprawling out in the street in the dust. Van Deen was getting to his feet when Cultus came back in, his eyes still blank from the punch, his mouth sagging a little. Cultus watched him closely. He knew Van Deen was a dangerous man; it was written all over him.
Slowly the blank expression faded and a look of understanding came to his eyes. He looked keenly at Cultus as he masticated carefully, testing his jaw. The room was very quiet. Then, “All right,” he said huskily. “You win this time. I wasn’t lookin’ for anythin’ like that. That’s a good one, stranger—and I’ll remember it.”
He walked past Cultus and went outside, where he found Alden Marsh sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, crying bitterly. Whisky and humiliation had him down.
“C’mon, you damned baby!” snorted Van Deen. “We’re goin’ home.”