So don't think about--our own feelings, or about--" he stopped abruptly and let a downward glance finish the sentence.

"We've got to keep our own hands clean, and--now don't let your fingers get the itch, Bud!" This, because of certain manifestations of a murderous intent on the part of Big Medicine.
"Oh, it's all right to talk, if yuh feel like talking," Big Medicine retorted savagely.

"I don't." He made a catlike spring at the foremost man, who happened to be Oleson, and got a merciless grip with his fingers on his throat, snarling like a predatory animal over its kill.
From behind, Andy, with Weary to help, pulled him off.
"I didn't mean to--to kill anybody," gasped Oleson, pasty white.

"I heard a lot of shooting, and so I ran up the hill--and the herders came running toward me, and I thought I was defending my property and men.

I had a right to defend--" "Defend hell!" Big Medicine writhed in the restraining grasp of those who held him.