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 gun man like me and you, Bill; that ain't his way of fightin'. The longer he cussed that feller the madder he got, till he got so damn mad he jammed that old gun in the scabber and lit into Randall with his fists."

Bill was on his feet, his own fists doubled hard, the two little white spots showing on the bridge of his long nose, breathing like a horse.

"Good boy!" he cheered. "Good boy!"

"Moore took that feller a clip under the chin that nearly lifted him through the roof, and he laid him out so cold he never got no more chance to use that gun 'n a angel. And he was holdin' it in his fist all the time! Well, sir, gentlemen, when Moore got done with that man they had to borrow Schubert's plank to carry him home on, and when he got able to sneak, he snunk. I guess you won't find nobody much to shoot up when you go back to Pawnee Bend tomorrow, Bill."

"Maybe it's just as well," Bill reflected, sitting down again soberly.

"It's better," Mrs. Brassfield said, decisively.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Shad argued. "A man's got a right to clean up on a gang that tries to murder him off. I know if it was me I'd foller 'em to the aidge of nowheres but I'd git 'em."

Mollie made no comment on this vengeful and relentless declaration, which appeared about as far from the nature of her lean old caterpillar husband as opposites could be extended. She tilted her chin and pulled down the corners of her flexible thin mouth, expressing disdain far more effectively by her silence than any words she could have commanded.