"But let me
return your compliment. You're a fine Southerner! Why, you're only a
cheap four-flush--damned bull-headed--_rustler_"
Steele hissed the last word. Then for him--for me--for Hoden--there was
the truth in Wright's working passion-blackened face.
Wright jerked, moved, meant to draw. But how slow! Steele lunged
forward. His long arm swept up.
And Wright staggered backward, knocking table and chairs, to fall hard,
in a half-sitting posture, against the wall.
"Don't draw!" warned Steele.
"Wright, get away from your gun!" yelled the cowboy Brick.
But Wright was crazed by fury. He tugged at his hip, his face corded
with purple welts, malignant, murderous, while he got to his feet.
I was about to leap through the door when Steele shot. Wright's gun went
ringing to the floor.
Like a beast in pain Wright screamed. Frantically he waved a limp arm,
flinging blood over the white table-cloths. Steele had crippled him.
"Here, you cowboy," ordered Steele; "take him out, quick!"
Brick saw the need of expediency, if Wright did not realize it, and he
pulled the raving man out of the place. He hurried Wright down the
street, leaving the horses behind.
Steele calmly sheathed his gun.
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