Then he came again, silent and thinkin' of blood, I s'pose, with a knife in his hand.
"This time the tenderfoot didn't wait.

He went in with a sort of hitch step, like a dancer.

Ferguson's knife carved the air beside the tenderfoot's head, and then the skinny boy jerked up his right and his left--one, two--into Sandy's mouth.

Down he goes again--slumps down as if all the bones in his body was busted--right down on his face.

The other feller grabs his shoulder and jerks him over on his back.
"He stands lookin' down at him for a moment, and then he says, sort of thoughtful: 'He isn't badly hurt, but I suppose I shouldn't have hit him twice.' "Can you beat that, Steve?
You can't! "When Sandy come to he got up to his feet, wobbling--seen his guns--went over and scooped 'em up, with the eye of the tenderfoot on him all the time--scooped 'em up--stood with 'em all poised--and so he backed out through the door.