But another hand was ahead of his. Standing just behind him, Bud Jessup had sized up the situation a fraction of a second before Tex, and like a flash he bent forward and snatched the foreman's weapon from its holster.
"Cut that out, Slim!" he shrilled, forestalling a sudden downward jerk of McCabe's right hand. "No horning in, now. Give it here."
An instant later he had slammed the door and shot the bolt, and stood with back against it, a Colt in each hand. His freckled face was flushed and his eyes gleamed with excitement.
"Go to it, Buck!" he yelled jubilantly. "My money's up on yuh, old man. Give him hell!"
Lynch darted out into the middle of the room, thrusting aside the table with a single powerful sweep of one arm. There was no hint of reluctance in his manner, nor lack of efficiency in the lowering droop of his big shoulders or the way his fists fell automatically into position. His face had hardened into a fierce mask, out of which savage eyes blazed fearlessly.
An instant later, like the spring of a panther, Stratton's lean, lithe body launched forward.
Stratton staggered back against the wall and leaned there, panting. All his strength had gone out in that last terrific blow, and for a space he seemed incapable of movement. At length, conscious of a warm, moist trickle on his chin, he raised one hand mechanically to his face and brought it away, dabbled with bright crimson. For a moment or two he regarded the stiff, crooked fingers and bruised knuckles in a dazed, impersonal fashion as if the hand belonged to some one else. Then he became aware that Bud was speaking.
"Sure," he mumbled, when the meaning of the reiterated question penetrated to his consciousness. "I'm--all--right."
Then his head began to clear, and, slowly straightening his sagging shoulders, he glanced down at the hulking figure sprawling motionless amidst the debris of the wrecked table.
"He's out, that's all," stated Jessup crisply. "Golly, Buck! That was some punch." He paused, regarding his friend eagerly. "What are yuh goin' to do now?" he asked.
A tiny trickle of blood from Stratton's cut lip ran down his chin and splashed on the front of his torn, disordered shirt.
"Wash, I reckon," he answered, with a twisted twitch of his stiff lips that was meant to be a smile. "I sure need it bad."