ay. The frenzy of desperation was in
him. He was resorting to the raw, low, common tricks of the ordinary
outlaw, even to biting at his rider's legs. That ungentlemanly behavior
was costly, as he quickly learned, at the expense of a badly cut mouth.
He never had met a rider before who had energy to spare from his efforts
to stick in the saddle to slam him a big kick in the mouth when he
doubled himself to make that vicious snap. The sound of that kick
carried to the corral.

"I'll fix you for that!" Jim swore.

He was breathing as hard as his horse, sweat of anxiety running down his
face. The Duke was bringing the horse back, his spirit pretty well
broken, it appeared.

"What do you care what he does to him? It ain't your horse no more."

It was Taterleg who said that, standing near Jim, a little way behind
him, as gorgeous as a bridegroom in the bright sun.

"You fellers can't ring me in on no game like that and beat me out of my
horse!" said Jim, redder than ever in his passion.

"Who do you mean, rung you in, you little, flannel-faced fiste?"[1]
Siwash demanded, whirling round on him with blood in his eye.

Jim was standing with his legs apart, bent a little at the knees, as if
he intended to make a jump. His right hand was near the butt of his gun,
his fingers were clasping and unclasping, as if he limbered them for
action. Taterleg slipped up behind him on his toes, and jerked the gun
from Jim's scabbard with quick and sure hand. He backed away with it,
presenting it with determined mien as Jim turned on him and cursed him
by all his lurid gods.

"If you fight anybody in this camp today, Jim, you'll fight like a man,"
said Taterleg, "or you'll hobble out of it on three legs, like a wolf."

The Duke was riding old Whetstone like a feather, letting him have his
spurts of kicking and stiff-legged bouncing without any effort to
restrain him at all. There wasn't much steam in the outlaw's antics now;
any common man could have ridden him without losing his hat.

Jim had drawn apart from the others, resentful of the distrust that
Taterleg had shown, but more than half of his courage and bluster taken
away from him with his gun. He was swearing more volubly than ever to
cover his other deficiencies; but he was a man to be feared only when he
had his weapon under his hand.

The Duke had brought the horse almost back to camp when the animal was
taken with an extraordinarily vicious spasm of pitching, broken by
s