With a yell of rage and amazement, four of the ranchers fell upon Whitey in a sort of football formation, while that young man fought and bit and clawed and kicked as long as he could move a muscle.
As soon as the lanterns were brought in and the bruised and cursing cowboys had disentangled themselves, Whitey was yanked to his feet in no gentle manner; and while the irate Ross almost choked him to death, Crowley bound him tight in a lariat much after the fashion that a mummy is swathed in bandages. Finally, when this was thoroughly and completely done, Ross relinquished his grip on Whitey's wind-pipe, and stood back and wiped the perspiration from his red and bloated face.
There was a large and rapidly swelling welt over one of Ross' eyes where Whitey's club had landed in the whirlwind assault that he had made upon the gang. In fact, there were few of the men who were not "decorated" in some manner, for Whitey had played no favorites in wielding his shillalah in the dark. Crowley's lip was swollen to several times its natural size, and it was evident that he was having hard work to control his temper; and he, as well as the others, glared at the boy in a way that boded ill for him.
But Whitey returned their black looks with interest; his fighting-blood was up,—he had no regard for consequences; and had he been loose, he would have charged all of them. One thing only was the salvation of Whitey. Crowley caught sight of several of the men nursing their various bruises—the welt above Ross' eye was assuming ludicrous proportions—and Crowley laughed!
"No danger, hey?" snarled Ross. "He couldn't git loose, er nuthin'! Oh, no! He's jes' as harmless as a ton o' dynamite!"
"No more chanct o' him gittin' loose 'n the' is o' the lamp explodin'!" put in another, sarcastically. "Well, by Judas, 't looks t' me as tho' the lamp done exploded!"
"Yo' all said a mouthful!" admitted Crowley, feeling of his lip, and speaking with some difficulty. "An' I reckon mebbe I was among them present when she blew! I ain't got real bright yet after thet wallop he giv' me!"
"Yo're shore pretty bright, anyhow!" said Ross, making a painful effort to sneer. "Seems to me it was yo' said he didn't need no gag ner nuthin'! Mebbe he don't—but he's goin' to git one—one 'at 'll shet him up fer 'bout five hundred years, an' then some! I'm tryin' to decide whether t' bile 'im over a slow fire er t' pull 'im apart with four hosses! I bin shin-kicked, thumb-bit, an' walloped across the nose with a club, an' I reckon that'll be 'bout all this evenin'! The' ain't no child-wonder goin' to put them things over onto me an' get away with it—not while I got my health, he ain't."
"Don't look as tho' none of us 'd have much health ef this here pizen varmint ain't took in hand pronto!" said Tucker, who had received a crack over his sore knuckles that put his hand out of business. "I ain't got no more scruples 'bout shootin' him up 'n I'd hev 'bout killin' a coyote!" and Tucker tried to draw his gun with his sore hand.
"The' won't nuthin' like thet come off—not while I'm 'round!" said Crowley, firmly. "Ef seven er twelve big, over-growed huskies like we all is has t' call in the Sassiety fer the Pervention uv Cruelty by Childern an' holler fer help ever' time this here half-portion shows up in our midst, I reckon we all better make application fer admission to the home fer crippled old wimmen an' set out onto the piazzy in rockin' chairs, 'long with the rest on 'em!"