He removed the knives that hemmed in the boy and supported the half-fainting figure to a chair beside the roulette table. But always he remained in such a position as to keep the big bully he was baiting in view. The boy dropped into the chair and covered his face with his hands, sobbing with deep, broken breaths. The ranger touched caressingly the crisp, fair hair that covered the head in short curls.
“Don’t you worry, bub. Now, don’t you. It’s all over with now. That coyote won’t pester you any more. Will you, Mr. False Alarm Bad Man?”
At the last words he wheeled suddenly to the showman. “You’re right sorry already you got so gay, ain’t you? Come! Speak yore little piece, please.”
He waited for an answer, and his gaze held fast to the bloated face that cringed before his attack.
“What’s your name?”
“Jay Hardman,” quavered the now thoroughly sobered bad man.
“Dead easy jay, I reckon you mean. Now, chirp, up and tell the boy how sorry you are you got fresh with your hardware.”
“He’s my boy. I guess I can do what I like with him,” the man burst out angrily. “I wasn’t hurting him any, either. That’s part of our show, to—”
Bucky fondled suggestively the revolver in his hand. A metallic click came to his victim.
“Don’t you shoot at me again,” the man broke off to scream.