His eyes were diamond points of accumulated fury, and those whom he faced quailed before him.
"Yu scum! Draw, please draw! Pull yore guns an' gimme my chance! Three to one, an' I'll lay my guns here," he said, placing them on the bar and removing his hands.

"'Nearer My God to Thee' is purty appropriate fer yu just now! Yu seem to be a-scared of yore own guns.

Git down on yore dirty knees an' say good an' loud that yu eats dirt! Shout out that yu are too currish to live with decent men," he said, even-toned and distinct, his voice vibrant with passion as he took up his Colts.

"Get down!" he repeated, shoving the weapons forward and pulling back the hammers.
The trio glanced at each other, and all three dropped to their knees and repeated in venomous hatred the words Hopalong said for them.
"Now git! An' if I sees yu when I leaves I'll send yu after yore friend.
I'll shoot on sight now.

Git!" He escorted them to the door and kicked the last one out.
His miner friend still leaned against the bar and looked his approval.
"Well done, youngster! But yu wants to look out--that man," pointing to the now groping victim of Hopalong's blow, "is th' marshal of this town.
He or his pals will get yu if yu don't watch th' corners." Hopalong walked over to the marshal, jerked him to his feet and slammed him against the bar.