In three he had whipped Bill--cause unknown to the chronicler, and somewhat hazy to Ford also after it was all over.

By mid-afternoon he had Sammy entrenched in the tiny stronghold where barreled liquors were kept, and scared to the babbling stage.

Aleck had been put to bed with a gash over his right eye where Ford had pointed his argument with a beer glass, and Big Jim had succumbed to a billiard cue directed first at his most sensitive bunion and later at his head.

Ford was not using his fists, that day, because even in his whisky-brewed rage he remembered, oddly enough, his skinned knuckles.
Others had come--in fact, the entire male population of Sunset was hovering in the immediate vicinity of the hotel--but none had conquered.
There had been considerable ducking to avoid painful contact with flying glasses from the bar, and a few had retreated in search of bandages and liniment; the luckier ones remained as near the storm-center as was safe and expostulated.

To those Ford had but one reply, which developed into a sort of war-chant, discouraging to the peace-loving listeners.
"I'm a rooting, tooting, shooting, fighting son-of-a-gun--_and a good one!_" Ford would declaim, and with deadly intent aim a lump of coal, billiard ball, or glass at some unfortunate individual in his audience.
"Hit the nigger and get a cigar! You're just hanging around out there till I drink myself to sleep--but I'm fooling you a few! I'm watching the clock with one eye, and I take my dose regular and not too frequent.
I'm going to kill off a few of these smart boys that have been talking about me and my wife.