“Had enough, Bandy? You licked?” he asked.
“Take him off, I tell you!” the man managed to scream.
“Not unless you’re whipped. How about it?”
“’Nough,” the bully groaned.
Bob observed that Hawks had taken charge of the revolver. He released Walker.
The bow-legged puncher sat at the side of the bed and coughed. The blood was streaming from a face bruised and cut in a dozen places.
“He—he—jumped me—when I wasn’t lookin’,” the cowboy spat out, a word at a time.
“Don’t pull an alibi, Bandy. You had it comin’,” Dud said with a grin. He was more pleased than he could tell.
Dillon felt as though something not himself had taken control of him. He was in a cold fury, ready to fight again at the drop of a hat.
“He said she—she—” The sentence broke, but Bob rushed into another. “He’s got to take it back or I’ll kill him.”