With a swish his
right hand went forward to Taggart's face, one hundred and eighty
pounds of vengeful, malignant muscle behind it. There was the dull,
strange sound of impacting bone and flesh. Taggart's head shot
backward, he crumpled oddly, his legs wabbled and doubled under him and
he sank in his tracks, sprawling on his hands and knees in the sand.
For an instant he remained in this position, then he threw himself
forward, groping for the pistol Calumet had dropped. Calumet's booted
foot struck his wrist, and with a bellow of rage and pain he got to his
feet and rushed headlong at his assailant. Calumet advanced a step to
meet him. His right fist shot out again; it caught Taggart fairly in
the mouth and he sank down once more. He landed as before, on his
hands and knees, and for an instant he stayed in that position, his
head hanging between his arms and swaying limply from side to side.
Then with an inarticulate grunt he plunged forward and lay face
downward in the sand.
Calumet stood watching him. He felt Betty's hand on his arm, laid
there restrainingly, but he shook her viciously off, telling her to
"mind her own business." Malcolm had come forward; he stood behind
Betty. Dade had not moved, though a savage satisfaction had come into
his eyes. Bob stood in front of the stable door, trembling from
excitement.
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