Wheeling, he rushed at Rojas. It was his old line-breaking plunge.
Neither Rojas nor his men had time to move. The black-skinned
bandit's face turned a dirty white; his jaw dropped; he would have
shrieked if Gale had not hit him. The blow swept him backward against
his men. Then Gale's heavy body, swiftly following with the momentum
of that rush, struck the little group of rebels. They went down
with table and chairs in a sliding crash.
Gale carried by his plunge, went with them. Like a cat he landed
on top. As he rose his powerful hands fastened on Rojas. He
jerked the little bandit off the tangled pile of struggling,
yelling men, and, swinging him with terrific force, let go his
hold. Rojas slid along the floor, knocking over tables and chairs.
Gale bounded back, dragged Rojas up, handling him as if he were a
limp sack.
A shot rang out above the yells. Gale heard the jingle of breaking
glass. The room darkened perceptibly. He flashed a glance backward.
The two cowboys were between him and the crowd of frantic rebels.
One cowboy held two guns low down, level in front of him. The other
had his gun raised and aimed. On the instant it spouted red and
white. With the crack came the crashing of glass, another darkening
shade over the room. With a cry Gale slung the bleeding Rojas from
him. The bandit struck a table, toppled over it, fell, and lay prone.
Another shot made the room full of moving shadows, with light only
back of the bar.
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