As Hawley swaggered to the bar, the room was suddenly tense. The gunman jostled Hatfiel rudely, spoiling for a fight. The Ranger ignored him as if he were dirt. Hawley flushed as the insult went home, roaring "Why, you lowdown range tramp-- " Hatfield hit him in the mouth, hard. Hawley reeled back, fell over a chair and measured his length on the floor. He bounded to his feet, spewing blood and curses, his face furious with anger, his fingers ready to swoop down on his gun. Hatfield stood perfectly still, his hands hanging loosely by his sides, saying grimly: "You're called, Hawley. Either fill your hand or crawl."
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