"Kicked?"
"Shore kicked. Kicked after he was down."
"How?"
"Didn't you see that feller Dawson kick Bull when he was down? Where was yore eyes?"
"That's the way of it, huh? Well, it might save trouble if Bull was to go on the prod real vicious."
"Yo're whistlin'. They ain't no manner of reason for doin' a job yoreself if you can get somebody else to do it for you."
When Bull came to he was lying on his cot in his little cubby hole adjoining the back room of the Starlight. Over across from the bed Doc Coffin was looking out of the grimy window. Behind the closed door giving egress to the back room certain folk were busy at faro. "King win, ten lose," the dealer was saying.
Doc Coffin turned at the rustle of Bull's slight movement. Doc nodded grimly.
"How's the head?" he inquired.
Bull put up a hand to the bandage encircling his bullet head and swore feelingly.