“Turn around, DuMond,” he said softly.
DuMond whined deep in his throat, a sort of a strangle. With a supreme effort he drew his elbows off the bar and turned around, his hands held almost shoulder-high. He blinked at old man McCoy painfully. The old man had his hands resting on his hips, his head thrust forward.
“Let yore hands down, DuMond.”
“No,” said DuMond hollowly. “I—I—what did yuh say, McCoy?”
“Yuh can’t draw from up there, DuMond. Let yore hands down to yore waist. I’m givin’ yuh that even break yuh wanted.”
“Even break?” DuMond’s eyes shifted and he looked around at the hazy faces of the many men in the place. There was nobody directly behind McCoy. DuMond’s eyes were full of tears, as though he had been looking at a bright light.
“Yuh wanted an even break, yuh said,” reminded old Rance evenly.
“Not me,” said DuMond in a strained voice. “Oh, not me, McCoy. What I said was——”
DuMond swallowed heavily, but was unable to go ahead with his explanation. Rance McCoy moved slowly ahead until he stood within a foot of the shrinking DuMond. Then he deliberately slapped DuMond across the mouth, knocking him back against the bar. But DuMond did not drop his right hand. His left slowly went to his lips and he stood there, leaning back against the bar, the back of his left hand held tightly against his lips, as though to ward off a blow. There was a crimson trickle down his stubbled chin below the protecting hand.
“Get out of here,” commanded Rance McCoy, pointing toward the open door. “Get out of here, you pup; I want to talk to men.”