“Since you like it so well, have another taste.” Curly, now thoroughly angry, sent a short-arm jolt to the mouth.
The man underneath tried to throw him off, but Flandrau’s fingers found his hairy throat and tight-
[Transcriber’s Note: the last line printed in the preceeding paragraph was “tight-” and that was at a page break. The continuation was not printed at the top of the following page. From the context, “tightened” is likely the completed word.]
“You’re killing me,” the convict gasped.
“Enough?”
“Y-yes.”
Curly stepped back quickly, ready either for a knife or a gun-play. Blackwell got to his feet, and glared at him.
“A man is like a watermelon; you can’t most generally tell how good he is till you thump him,” Sam chuckled.
Cranston laughed. “Curly was not so ripe for picking as you figured, Lute. If you’d asked me, I could a-told you to put in yore spare time letting him alone. But a fellow has to buy his own experience.”
The victor offered his hand to Blackwell. “I had a little luck. We’ll call it quits if you say so.”