Miller was furious.  He had intended to clean up this bantam in about a minute.  He rushed again, broke through Dave’s defense, and closed with him.  His great arms crushed into the ribs of his lean opponent.  As they swung round and round, Dave gasped for breath.  He twisted and squirmed, trying to escape that deadly hug.  Somehow he succeeded in tripping his huge foe.

They went down locked together, Dave underneath.  The puncher knew that if he had room Miller would hammer his face to a pulp.  He drew himself close to the barrel body, arms and legs wound tight like hoops.

Miller gave a yell of pain.  Instinctively Dave moved his legs higher and clamped them tighter.  The yell rose again, became a scream of agony.

“Lemme loose!” shrieked the man on top.  “My Gawd, you’re killin’ me!”

Dave had not the least idea what was disturbing Miller’s peace of mind, but whatever it was moved to his advantage.  He clamped tighter, working his heels into another secure position.  The big man bellowed with pain.  “Take him off!  Take him off!” he implored in shrill crescendo.

“What’s all this?” demanded an imperious voice.

Miller was torn howling from the arms and legs that bound him and Dave found himself jerked roughly to his feet.  The big raw-boned foreman was glaring at him above his large hook nose.  The trail boss had been out at the remuda with the jingler when the trouble began.  He had arrived in time to rescue his fat friend.

“What’s eatin’ you, Sanders?” he demanded curtly.

“He jumped George!” yelped Miller.

Breathing hard, Dave faced his foe warily.  He was in a better strategic position than he had been, for he had pulled the revolver of the fat man from its holster just as they were dragged apart.  It was in his right hand now, pressed close to his hip, ready for instant use if need be.  He could see without looking that Doble was still struggling ineffectively in the grip of Russell.

“Dave stumbled and spilt some coffee on George; then George he tried to gun him.  Miller mixed in then,” explained Hart.

The foreman glared.  “None of this stuff while you’re on the trail with my outfit.  Get that, Sanders?  I won’t have it.”

“Dave he couldn’t hardly he’p hisse’f,” Buck Byington broke in.  “They was runnin’ on him considerable, Dug.”

“I ain’t askin’ for excuses.  I’m tellin’ you boys what’s what,” retorted the road boss.  “Sanders, give him his gun.”

The cowpuncher took a step backward.  He had no intention of handing a loaded gun to Miller while the gambler was in his present frame of mind.  That might be equivalent to suicide.  He broke the revolver, turned the cylinder, and shook out the cartridges.  The empty weapon he tossed on the ground.

“He ripped me with his spurs,” Miller said sullenly.  “That’s howcome I had to turn him loose.”

Dave looked down at the man’s legs.  His trousers were torn to shreds.  Blood trickled down the lacerated calves where the spurs had roweled the flesh cruelly.  No wonder Miller had suddenly lost interest in the fight.  The vaquero thanked his lucky stars that he had not taken off his spurs and left them with the saddle.