The flood of waters died down. The roaring ceased. The puncher’s words came to him clear.
“... not but what she was likely glad enough to go with Jake. She was out with him four-five hours. Where was they, I ask? What was they doing? You can’t tell me she couldn’t ’a’ got away sooner if she’d wanted to so darned bad. No, sir, I’m no chicken right out of a shell. When it comes to a woman I say, Where’s the man?”
A surge of anger welled up in Dillon and overflowed. He forgot about Dud and his threats. He forgot about his trepidation. This hound was talking of June, lying about her out of his foul throat.
One of the boots was still in his hand. He swung it round and brought the heel hard against the fellow’s mouth. The blood gushed from the crushed lips. Bob dropped the boot and jolted his left to the cheek. He followed with a smashing right to the eye.
Taken at disadvantage, Bandy tried to struggle to his feet. He ran into one straight from the shoulder that caught the bridge of his nose and flung him back upon the bunk.
His hand reached under the pillow. Bob guessed what was there and dropped hard with both knees on his stomach.
The breath went out of Bandy suddenly. He lay still for a moment. When he began to struggle again he had forgotten the revolver under the pillow. With a sweeping gesture Bob brushed pillow and gun to the floor.
The man underneath twisted his red, wrinkled neck and bit Bob’s forearm savagely. The boy’s fingers closed like a vice on the hairy throat and tightened. His other fist beat a merciless tattoo on the bruised and bleeding face.
“Take him off!” Bandy presently gasped.
Dud appointed himself referee. With difficulty he unloosed the fingers embedded in the flesh of the throat.