Silently, his eyes aflame with passion, Shorty leaped to the desk and
snatched the gun that Lawler had placed at Warden's hand. With almost
the same movement he pulled Warden out of his chair and threw him
against the rear wall of the room. He was after the man like a giant
panther; catching him by the throat with his left hand as he reached
him, crushing him against the wall so that the impact jarred the
building; while he savagely jammed the muzzle of the pistol deep into
the man's stomach, holding it there with venomous pressure, while his
blazing eyes bored into Warden's with a ferocious malignance. "Damn you,
Warden," he said hoarsely; "I ought to kill you!" He shook Warden with
his left hand, as though the man were a child in his grasp, sinking his
fingers into the flesh of his neck until Warden's eyes popped out and
his face grew purple. Then he released him so suddenly that Warden sank
to his knees on the floor, coughing, laboring, straining to draw his
breath.
He stood, huge and menacing, until Warden swayed to his feet and
staggered weakly to the chair in which he had been sitting when Lawler
entered; and then he leaned over the desk and peered into Warden's face.
"This ain't my game, Warden! If it was, I'd choke the gizzard out of you
and chuck you out of a window! I reckon I've got to save you for
Lawler--if he gets over this.
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