As they rattled down and the chairs of the dumfounded players
began to slide Dick called out: "My name is Gale. I'm looking
for Mr. Radford Chase."
A tall, heavy-shouldered fellow rose, boldly enough, even swaggeringly,
and glowered at Gale.
"I'm Radford Chase," he said. His voice betrayed the boldness of
his action.
It was over in a few moments. The tables and chairs were tumbled
into a heap; one of the pool tables had been shoved aside; a lamp
lay shattered, with oil running dark upon the floor. Ladd leaned
against a post with a smoking gun in his hand. A Mexican crouched
close to the wall moaning over a broken arm. In the far corner
upheld by comrades another wounded Mexican cried out in pain. These
two had attempted to draw weapons upon Gale, and Ladd had crippled
them.
In the center of the room lay Radford Chase, a limp, torn, hulking,
bloody figure. He was not seriously injured. But he was helpless,
a miserable beaten wretch, who knew his condition and felt the
eyes upon him. He sobbed and moaned and howled. But no one offered
to help him to his feet.
Backed against the door of the hall stood Ben Chase, for once
stripped of all authority and confidence and courage. Gale
confronted him, and now Gale's mien was in striking contrast to
the coolness with which he had entered the place. Though sweat
dripped from his face, it was as white as chalk. Like dark flames
his eyes seemed to leap and dance and burn.
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