For a moment Andy was too stunned to answer.  Then his voice came harshly and he swayed from side to side, gathering and summoning his wrath.

“Keep out boy!  Keep out, or you’re buzzard meat.  I’m warnin’—­”

For the first time his glance left the rider to find George, and that instant was fatal.  The hand of Donnegan licked out as the snake’s tongue darts—­the loaded quirt slipped over in his hand, and holding it by the lash he brought the butt of it thudding on the head of Andy.

Even then the instinct to fight remained in the stunned man; while he fell, he was drawing the revolver; he lay in a crumpling heap at the feet of Donnegan’s horse with the revolver shoved muzzle first into the sand.

Donnegan’s voice did not rise.

“Go in and get that mint, George,” he ordered.  “And hurry.  This rascal has kept me waiting until I’m thirsty.”

Big George hesitated only one instant—­it was to sweep the crowd for the second time with his confident grin—­and he strode through the door of the dance hall.  As for Donnegan, his only movement was to swing his horse around and shift riding crop and reins into the grip of his left hand.  His other hand was dropped carelessly upon his hip.  Now, both these things were very simple maneuvers, but The Corner noted that his change of face had enabled Donnegan to bring the crowd under his eye, and that his right hand was now ready for a more serious bit of work if need be.  Moreover, he was probing faces with his glance.  And every armed man in that group felt that the eye of the rider was directed particularly toward him.

There had been one brief murmur; then the silence lay heavily again, for it was seen that Andy had been only slightly stunned—­knocked out, as a boxer might be.  Now his sturdy brains were clearing.  His body stiffened into a human semblance once more; he fumbled, found the butt of his gun with his first move.  He pushed his hat straight:  and so doing he raked the welt which the blow had left on his head.  The pain finished clearing the mist from his mind; in an instant he was on his feet, maddened with shame.  He saw the semicircle of white faces, and the whole episode flashed back on him.  He had been knocked down like a dog.

For a moment he looked into the blank faces of the crowd; someone noted that there was no gun strapped at the side of Donnegan.  A voice shouted a warning.

“Stop, Lewis.  The dude ain’t got a gun.  It’s murder!”

It was now that Lewis saw Donnegan sitting the saddle directly behind him, and he whirled with a moan of fury.  It was a twist of his body—­in his eagerness—­rather than a turning upon his feet.  And he was half around before the rider moved.  Then he conjured a gun from somewhere in his clothes.  There was the flash of the steel, an explosion, and Scar-faced Lewis was on his knees with a scream of pain holding his right forearm with his left hand.