"'Nearer My God to Thee' is purty
appropriate fer yu just now! Yu seem to be a-scared of yore own guns.
Git down on yore dirty knees an' say good an' loud that yu eats dirt!
Shout out that yu are too currish to live with decent men," he said,
even-toned and distinct, his voice vibrant with passion as he took up
his Colts. "Get down!" he repeated, shoving the weapons forward and
pulling back the hammers.
The trio glanced at each other, and all three dropped to their knees
and repeated in venomous hatred the words Hopalong said for them.
"Now git! An' if I sees yu when I leaves I'll send yu after yore
friend. I'll shoot on sight now. Git!" He escorted them to the door
and kicked the last one out.
His miner friend still leaned against the bar and looked his
approval.
"Well done, youngster! But yu wants to look out-that man," pointing
to the now groping victim of Hopalong's blow, "is th' marshal of this
town. He or his pals will get yu if yu don't watch th' corners."
Hopalong walked over to the marshal, jerked him to his feet and
slammed him against the bar. Then he tore the cheap badge from its
place and threw it on the floor. Reaching down, he drew the marshal's
revolver from its holster and shoved it in its owner's hand.
"Yore th' marshal of this place an' it's too good for me, but yore
gain' to pick up that tin lie," pointing at the badge, "an' yore goin'
to do it right now.
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