They crashed down and rolled across the room. Pete wriggled free
and rose. In a flash he realized that he was no match for Malvey's
brute strength. He had no desire to kill Malvey--but he did not intend
that Malvey should kill him. Pete jerked his gun loose as Malvey
staggered to his feet, but Pete dared not shoot on account of Boca. He
saw Malvey's hand touch the butt of his gun--when something crashed
down from behind. Pete dimly remembered Boca's white face--and the
room went black.
Malvey strode forward.
Old Flores dropped the neck of the shattered bottle and stood gazing
down at Pete. "The good wine is gone. I break the bottle," said
Flores, grinning.
"To hell with the wine! Let's pack this young tin-horn out where he
won't be in the way."
But as Malvey stooped, Boca flung herself in front of him. "Pig!" she
flamed. She turned furiously on her father, whose vacuous grin faded
as she cursed him shrilly for a coward.
Listless and heavy-eyed came Boca's mother. Without the slightest
trace of emotion she examined Pete's wound, fetched water and washed
it, binding it up with a handkerchief.
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