“Did Sam Holt and Ricky Henderson throw us down?”
I slipped out of there, ducked around the corner and ran right into
somebody coming the other way. We went down in a heap and fought out to
the middle of the street. My antagonist grunts—
“Dang your soul, fight fair!”
I let loose of Dirty’s ear, and we staggered to our feet. We limped
around back of the saloon and sat down for a while until we gets our
breath; then we gets up and pilgrims toward our burros. I don’t _sabe_
things at all, but I’m wise that there’s been a hitch somewhere.