Hopalong leaned with his back to the bar and talked, with the players
always in sight.
Soon the door opened and a bewhiskered, heavy-set man tramped in,
and walking up to Hopalong, looked him over.
"Huh," he sneered, "Yu are th' gent with th' festive guns that
plugged Dan, ain't yu?"
Hopalong looked at him in the eyes and quietly replied:
"An' who th' deuce are yu?"
The stranger's eyes blazed and his face wrinkled with rage as he
aggressively shoved his jaw close to Hopalong's face.
"Yu runt, I'm a better man than yu even if yu do wear hair pants,"
referring to Hopalong's chaps. "Yu cow-wrastlers make me tired, an'
I'm goin' to show yu that this town is too good for you. Yu can say it
right now that yu are a ornery, game-leg-"
Hopalong smashed his insulter squarely between the eyes with all the
power of his sinewy body behind the blow, knocking him in a heap under
the table. Then he quickly glanced at the card players and saw a
hostile movement. His gun was out in a flash and he covered the trio
as he walked up to them. Never in all his life had he felt such a
desire to kill. His eyes were diamond points of accumulated fury, and
those whom he faced quailed before him.
"Yu scum! Draw, please draw! Pull yore guns an' gimme my chance!
Three to one, an' I'll lay my guns here," he said, placing them on the
bar and removing his hands.
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