Roger stepped back. The tough-bodied fellow on the ground, though
overwhelmed by the relentless shower of blows, was not unconscious and
not whipped. He lay panting and helpless for the moment, his eyes held
fearfully on Roger's boots.
"You hound!" gasped the young man as he understood. "Do you think I'd
kick you when you're down. Get up, get up! You've got only half of
what's coming to you."
"Can't get up," said the prostrate man sullenly, after a pause. "Hip's
broke, or something."
"You lie! Get up, you liar!"
"All right." The cattleman slumped helplessly together. "Go ahead;
stomp on me. I can't get up."
Roger stood looking down at him irresolutely. In the fury of combat he
had been ready, even eager, to wreak any possible damage to his
opponent by fighting. Now with his blood growing cooler and no
antagonist before him it was a different matter, and the Anglo-Saxon
instinct to succor a fallen and helpless foe began to assert itself.
"You're a lying hound," he said furiously, to hide his intentions.
"Your hip is as sound as mine. Get up."
"All right; stomp on me; go ahead; I can't move."
"Where do you pretend you're hurt?"
"It's here." The man's right hand was fumbling in the side pocket of
his overalls. "Broke or paralyzed or something! Oh! oh! Mister, you
won the fight.
Pages:
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134