He called to Bob. “Come here, fellow, an’ yank this boot off for me.”
Dillon did not move. His heart stood still, then began to race. A choking filled his throat. The hour was striking for him. It was to be now or never.
The bow-legged puncher slewed his head. “I’m talkin’ to you.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Bob rose. He did not want to move. Something stronger than his will lifted him out of the bed and dragged him across the floor. He knew his hands were trembling.
Malignant triumph rode in Bandy’s eye. It was always safe to bully this timid youth. Dud Hollister had a “No Trespass” sign displayed in his quiet, cool manner. Very well. He would take it out of his riding mate. That was one way of getting at him.
“What’s ailin’ you? Git a move on. You act like you’d like to tell me to go take a walk. I’ll bet you would, too, if you wasn’t such a rabbit heart.”
Bob stooped and picked up the dirty boot. He zigzagged it from the foot. As he straightened again his eyes met those of Dud. He felt a roaring in the temples.
“O’ course any one that’d let another fellow take his wife from him—an’ him not married more’n an hour or two—”
The young fellow did not hear the end of the cruel gibe. The sound of rushing waters filled his ears. He pulled off the second boot.
Again his gaze met that of Hollister. He remembered Dud’s words. “Crawl his hump sudden. Go to it like a wild cat.” The trouble was he couldn’t. His muscles would not obey the flaccid will.