“Thief!  Me a thief!  Shore I’ll use my feet, you yaller dog!” yelled the prostrate man, and his boot heel sank into the stomach of the offending Mr. Stevenson with sickening force and laudable precision.  He drew it back slowly, as if debating shoving it farther.  “Call me a thief, hey!  Come poking ‘round kicking honest punchers an’ calling ’em names!  Anybody want the other boot?” he inquired with grave solicitation.

Stevenson sat down forcibly and rocked to and fro, doubled up and gasping for breath, and Hopalong squinted at him and grinned with happiness.  “Hear him sing!  Reg’lar ol’ brass band.  Sounds like a cow pulling its hoofs outen the mud.  Called me a thief, he did, just now.  An’ I won’t let nobody kick me an’ call me names.  He’s a liar, just a plain, squaw’s dog liar, he—­”

Two men grabbed him and raised him up, holding him tightly, and they were not over careful to handle him gently, which he naturally resented.  Charley stepped in front of him to go to the aid of Stevenson and caught the other boot in his groin, dropping as if he had been shot.  The man on the prisoner’s left emitted a yell and loosed his hold to sympathize with a bruised shinbone, and his companion promptly knocked the bound and still intoxicated man down.  Bill Thomas swore and eyed the prostrate figure with resentment and regret.  “Hate to hit a man who can fight like that when he’s loaded an’ tied.  I’m glad, all the same, that he ain’t sober an’ loose.”

“An’ you ain’t going to hit him no more!” snapped Jed White, reddening with anger.  “I’m ready to hang him, ‘cause that’s what he deserves, an’ what we’re here for, but I’m damned if I’ll stand for any more mauling.  I don’t blame him for fighting, an’ they didn’t have no right to kick him in the beginning.”

“Didn’t kick him in the beginning,” grinned Bill.  “Kicked him in the ending.  Anyhow,” he continued seriously, “I didn’t hit him hard—­didn’t have to.  Just let him go an’ shoved him quick.”

“I’m just naturally going to clean house,” muttered the prisoner, sitting up and glaring around.  “Untie my han’s an’ gimme a gun or a club or anything, an’ watch yoreselves get licked.  Called me a thief!  What are you fellers, then?—­sticking me up an’ busting me for a few measly dollars.  Why didn’t you take my money an’ lemme sleep, ’stead of waking me up an’ kicking me?  I wouldn’t ‘a’ cared then.”

“Come on, now; get up.  We ain’t through with you yet, not by a whole lot,” growled Bill, helping him to his feet and steadying him.  “I’m plumb glad you kicked ’em; it was coming to ’em.”

“No, you ain’t; you can’t fool me,” gravely assured Hopalong.  “Yo’re lying, an’ you know it.  What you going to do now?  Ain’t I got money enough?  Wish I had an even break with you fellers!  Wish my outfit was here!”

Stevenson, on his feet again, walked painfully up and shook his fist at the captive, from the side.  “You’ll find out what we want of you, you damned hoss-thief!” he cried.  “We’re going to tie you to that there limb so yore feet’ll swing above the grass, that’s what we’re going to do.”