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.
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