He drew a six-shooter from one of the dropped holsters, and cocked it.
"Where's Rufe Cutting an' my hoss Ranger?" continued Loudon.
"I dunno! I tell yuh I dunno!" squealed the desperate sheriff.
One of the two guns in Loudon's hands spoke twice. Block fell to his knees, his hands gripping his head.
"Get up!" shouted Loudon. "Get up! It's only yore ear again. I used my own gun after all!"
Then, both what he had undergone at the hands of Block and the loss of his pet suddenly overwhelming him, he leaped at the crouching sheriff and kicked him.
"You —— murderer!" he gritted through his teeth.
"Where's my hoss? Where is he? —— yore soul! What did Rufe do to him? Tell me, or by —— I'll beat yuh to death here an' now!"
And with his wire-bound Mexican quirt Loudon proceeded savagely to lash the sheriff. Loudon was a strong man. He struck with all his might. The double thongs bit through vest and flannel shirt and raised raw welts on the flesh.
The sheriff writhed around and flung himself blindly at his torturer. But Loudon kicked the sheriff in the chest and hurled him, a groaning heap, into his corner. Nor did he cease to thrash him with the quirt. Between blows he bawled demands for news of his horse. Loudon felt sure that Ranger was dead, but he wished to clinch the fact.