“Aw, shut up!” retorted Sucatash, flaming. “Think yuh can bluff me when I’m a-facin’ yuh? Yuh damn’, cowardly horned toad!”
He half drew back his fist to strike as Banker rose, fumbling at his gun. But one of the other men suddenly struck out, with a fist like a ham, landing beneath the cow-puncher’s ear. He went down without a groan, completely knocked out.
The man got up, seized him by the legs, dragged him to the door and threw him into the road outside. Then he came back, laughing loudly, and swaggering as though his feat had been one to be proud of. Solange had shuddered and shrunk for a moment, but almost at once she shook herself as though casting 290 off her repulsion and after that was stonily composed.
On his way to the table the man who had struck Sucatash down, called loudly for another bottle of liquor, and one of the red-shirted men behind the bar left his place to bring it to them.
The burly bruiser sat down beside Solange with every appearance of self-satisfaction. He leered at her as though expecting her to flame at his prowess. But she gave no heed to him.
“Yuh might lift up that hat and let us git a look at yuh,” he said, reaching out as though to tilt the brim. She jerked sharply away from him.
“In good time, monsieur,” she said. “Have patience.”
Then she turned to Banker, who had been eying her with furtive, speculative eyes, cautious and suspicious.
“Monsieur Banker,” she said, “it is true that you have known this man who killed my father—this Louisiana?”
“Me! Shore, I knowed him. A murderin’ gunman he was, ma’am. A bad hombre!”