"What about the young lady?" he asked solicitously.
Durand wheeled on him, looked him over with an insolent, malevolent
eye, and jerked a thumb in his direction. "Who is this guy?"
"He's the fellow tipped us off his pal was inside," answered one of the
patrolmen. He spoke in a whisper close to the ear of Jerry. "Likely
he knows more than he lets on. Shall I make a pinch?"
The eyes of the gang leader narrowed. "So he's a friend of this
second-story bird, is he?"
"Y'betcha!" chirped up Johnnie, "and I'm plumb tickled to take his dust
too. Now about this yere young lady--"
Jerry caught him hard on the side of the jaw with a short arm jolt.
The range-rider hit the pavement hard. Slowly he got to his feet
nursing his cheek.
"What yuh do that for, doggone it?" he demanded resentfully. "Me, I
wasn't lookin' for no trouble. Me, I--"
Durand leaped at him across the sidewalk. His strong fingers closed on
the throat of the bow-legged puncher. He shook him as a lion does his
kill. The rage of the pugilist found a vent in punishing the friend of
the man he hated. Johnnie grew black in the face. His knees sagged
and his lips foamed.
The officers pried Jerry loose from his victim with the greatest
difficulty. He tried furiously to get at him, lunging from the men who
were holding his arms.
The puncher sank helplessly against the wall.
"He's got all he can carry, Mr. Durand," one of the bluecoats said
soothingly.
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