He managed to get loose from the harness, and one of his groping hands came in contact with the short ladder which led up to the old loft. Just why he should go up there never occurred to him, but he did.
He tried to straighten up and his head came in contact with the low, sloping roof so hard that he fell on his hands and knees. Just ahead of him was the square opening in the end of the stable, used as a hay-window.
Spike was blinking at the window, when he heard a dull thud, a frightened curse, the sound of a revolver shot. There was only one explanation to Spike. The nesters had discovered Bert Roddy.
‘Well, they’ll have their hands full,’ he declared to himself, and walked out through the hay-window.
It was about twelve feet to the ground and he landed all in a heap. The liquor had made him almost shock-proof, but he realized that a man had jumped on him and was kicking and striking with sickening regularity.
Spike Cahill loved to fight. He had lost his gun, but that was merely incidental. He managed to shake off his assailant long enough to get to his feet, and then they went at it, hammer and tongs.
Down they went again, rolling over and over, kicking, striking and gouging, missing oftener than they landed, unable to see each other. A man was running from the ranch-house, carrying a lantern; but Spike paid no attention to him, until the lantern illuminated both him and his antagonist. Then he looked up at old man Lane, half-dressed, a cocked revolver in his right hand. To Spike it was very like a nightmare. He realized that his opponent had ceased fighting, and he looked down at the bruised face of Bert Roddy, whose eyes were blinking in the lantern light.
‘What seems to be goin’ on here?’ demanded the old man.
‘Thish?’ queried Spike. ‘Oh, thish? Ha, ha, ha!’
‘Yeah, this!’ snapped the old man. ‘What are you two doin’ here in my yard? Ain’t there room at the 6X6 for yuh to fight, without comin’ over here, shootin’ and fightin’, wakin’ everybody up?’