For a moment Morgan glared at the old man, who was little more than half his size, and then lashed out with his right fist, catching Lane just above the left eye and knocking him flat. But the old man was not knocked out; the blow had landed too high for that. For a moment the old man sprawled on his side, dazed, hurt. Then his hand jerked back to his holster.
But Joe Cave stepped in front of him, blocking him from using the gun. Morgan laughed shortly, turned his back, and strode over to the Oasis saloon, while Joe Cave helped Lane to his feet.
‘That shore was a dirty punch,’ said Joe.
The old man brushed off his clothes, turned and went back to his horse, while Dave Morgan and Joe looked at each other and laughed.
‘I’d hate to be in Pete’s boots,’ grinned Joe. ‘That old jigger will kill him if he don’t look out.’
‘That’s no lie, Joe. Let’s go and have a drink, eh? No, not to the Oasis.’
Joe had worked for Dave before driving stage, and they knew each other’s business fairly well. Joe was a colorless sort of person, with tow-colored hair and buck-teeth. He had been fired from the 6X6 for playing a crooked game of poker in the bunk-house, and naturally had no love for Peter Morgan.
‘Mebby I was a fool for blockin’ the old man,’ said Joe Cave.
‘Mebby Pete will give yuh a reward for savin’ his life,’ grinned Dave. ‘He ought to pay yuh for that, Joe.’
‘Any time!’ snorted Joe. ‘He wouldn’t pay a nickel for a front seat at the Battle of Waterloo, with the original folks doin’ the fightin’.’