He took a limping step or two.
Every move was torture to his outraged flesh.
"Can you get me a taxi? That is, if you're sure you don't want me in
yore calaboose," the range-rider said, leaning against the wall.
"We'll let yuh go this time."
"Much obliged--to Mr. Jerry Durand. Tell him for me that maybe I'll
meet up with him again sometime--and hand him my thanks personal for
this first-class wallopin'." From the bruised, bleeding face there
beamed again the smile indomitable, the grin still gay and winning.
Physically he had been badly beaten, but in spirit he was still the man
on horseback.
Presently he eased himself into a taxi as comfortably as he could.
"Home, James," he said jauntily.
"Where?" asked the driver.
"The nearest hospital," explained Clay. "I'm goin' to let the doctors
worry over me for a while. Much obliged to both of you gentlemen. I
always did like the Irish. Friend Jerry is an exception."
The officers watched the cab disappear. The sergeant spoke the comment
that was in the mind of them both.
"He's the best single-barreled sport that iver I met in this man's
town. Not a whimper out of the guy and him mauled to a pulp. Game as
they come. Did youse see that spark o' the divvle in his eye, and him
not fit to crawl into the cab?"
"Did I see it? I did that. If iver they meet man to man, him and
Jerry, it'll be wan grand little fight."
"Jerry's the best rough-and-tumble fighter on the island.
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