But it's not for that I'm going to beat hell out of you! It's because I hate you! Ever since I can remember my father held you up to me! And he sent me to--to--he sent me away because of you.

By God! that's why I hate you!" All that was primitive and violent and base came out with strange frankness in Belllounds's tirade.

Only when calm could his mind be capable of hidden calculation.

The devil that was in him now seemed rampant.
"Belllounds, you're mighty brave to stack up this way against a one-legged man," declared the cowboy, with biting sarcasm.
"If you had two club-feet I'd only be the gladder," yelled Belllounds, and swinging his arm, he slapped Moore so that it nearly toppled him over.

Only the injured foot, coming down hard, saved him.
When Columbine saw that, and then how Wilson winced and grew deathly pale, she uttered a low cry, and she seemed suddenly rooted to the spot, weak, terrified at what was now inevitable, and growing sick and cold and faint.
"It's a damn lucky thing for you I'm not packing a gun," said Moore, grimly.